PLAYS 

of  the 

ITALIAN   THEATRE 


I 


Verga,  Morselli,  Lopez, 
Pirandello 


Translated  by 
Isaac  Goldberg,  Ph.D. 


JOHN  W.  LUCE  AND  COMPANY  .  .  .  BOSTON 

MCMXXI 


Copyright,  1921  by 
L.  E.  Bassett 


To 

CHARLES  HALL  GRANDGENT 

Professor  of  Romance  Languages 

IN  Harvard  University 


INTRODUCTION 

Among  the  features  that  make  the  study  of 
Italian  drama  so  interesting  are  the  diversity  of  the 
types,  the  numerous  differences  that  divide  the 
critics  and  the  more  or  less  diffuse  state  in  which  the 
institution  still  finds  itself.  We  are  prepared  for  the 
cry  of  decadence  that  has  filled  half  of  the  nineteenth 
century  and  not  a  little  of  the  twentieth;  to  be  a 
dramatic  critic  is  almost  synonymous,  in  all  tongues, 
with  bewailing  the  low  state  into  which  the  drama 
has  fallen.  In  Italy  the  matter  has  gone  much 
farther;  there  have  not  been  lacking  scholars  who 
deny  the  existence  of  a  genuinely  national  stage,  and 
since  Tullio  Fornioni,  in  1885,  started  the  ball 
a-rolling  it  has  been  given  powerful  shoves  by  such 
writers  as  Mario  Pilo,  Salvatore  Barzilai  and  V. 
Morello.  Only  this  year  Signor  Guido  Ruberti,  in 
his  closely  packed  two-volume  book  upon  "II 
Teatro  Contemporaneo  in  Europa,"  renews  the 
discussion  and  in  his  section  upon  the  realistic 
Italian  drama  (1,211)  declares  bluntly,  "The  truth 
is  that  Italy  has  never  had  a  truly  national  theatre. " 
He  goes  on  to  state,  in  the  ensuing  commentary, 
tliat  there  is,  in  the  very  nature  of  the  Italian  people, 
a  certain  quality  that  is  anti-dramatic  in  effect;  the 
spiritual  and  material  difficulties  experienced  by  the 
nation  while  other  countries  were  conquering  a. 
greater  or  less  degree  of  liberty  caused  it  to  turn  in 


vi  Introduction 

upon  itself,  accustoming  it  perforce  to  a  "singular 
mental  habit  of  adaptation  and  conciliation;  a 
remarkable  equilibrium  that  succeeds  in  fusing 
within  itself  the  most  diverse  tendencies,  harmoniz- 
ing them  in  a  supreme  ideal  which  is  neither  skepti- 
cism nor  austere  faith,  neither  absolute  indiffer- 
entism  nor  unreflecting  passion,  yet  feeds  upon  and 
communicates  all  these. '*  The  Italian  conscience, 
moreover,  unlike  the  Anglo-Saxon  and  the  Slav, 
finds  its  great  problems  settled  in  advance  by  its 
creed,  thus  removing,  or  at  least  greatly  modifying, 
one  of  the  mainsprings  of  dramatic  action.  In  the 
powerful  scenes  of  passionate  crime  the  critic  sees 
but  added  proof  of  the  primitiveness  of  his  people; 
upon  them,  he  tells  us,  the  currents  of  modern 
thought  make  Httle  impression. 

For  much  of  the  delay  in  the  achieving  of  a 
national  theatre  the  influence  of  France  is  blamed, 
the  same  France  in  whom  Spanish-American  critics 
fear  a  similar  denationaUzing  influence  and  who, 
according  to  Brazilian  writers,  is  Gallicizing  the 
immense  Portuguese-speaking  repubUc  to  our  south. 
Again,  the  presence  of  so  many  well  defined  regions, 
each  with  its  own  psychology,  its  own  pride,  its  own 
determination  to  preserve  its  spiritual  autonomy, 
acts  as  a  hindrance  to  the  formation  of  a  distinctly 
recognizable  national  drama.  The  Italian  dialect 
stage  is  an  important  institution;  Rome,  Sicily, 
Milan,  Bologna,  Venice,  Naples  —  these  are,  from 
the  dramatic  standpoint,  fairly  nations  within  a 
nation,  and  even  the  better  known  Italian  dramatists 


Introduction  vii 

are  proud  to  write  for  them.  Of  the  writers  repre- 
sented in  this  collection,  for  example,  Verga  and 
Pirandello  are  intimately  related  to  their  native 
Sicily,  as  is  Sabatino  Lopez  to  his  Tuscan  birth- 
place. 

If,  then,  it  is  yet  a  problem  whether  Italy's  drama 
be  truly  national  as  an  institution,  there  is  far  less 
doubt  as  to  whether  good  plays  have  been  written  by 
Italians;  the  stage  flourishes,  even  if  at  times  the 
native  product  is  strangely  absent.  And  in  this 
activity  the  part  of  the  one-act  play  is  singularly 
important,  as  the  Italian  audience  is  used  to  wit- 
nessing more  than  one  play  a  night,  and  has  a  fond- 
ness for  the  curtain-raiser.  Of  late  there  has  arisen 
the  custom  of  devoting  an  entire  evening  to  a  pro- 
gram of  one-act  plays,  so  that  the  native  playwrights 
consider  the  short  form  a  legitimate  and  worthy 
object  of  their  endeavor,  approaching  it  with  con- 
science and  interest.  They  have  imparted  to  the 
concentrated  drama  all  the  various  novelties  that 
have  come  out  of  France  and  the  North;  now  it  is  a 
bit  of  unacclimated  Ibsenism,  as  in  Giacosa's 
''Diritti  delF  anima,"  again,  the  latest  type  of 
cerebralized  thriller  as  in  F.  Maria  Martini's  "Ridi, 
Pagliaccio";  Marinetti,  indeed,  in  his  futuristic 
orgasms,  has  evolved  a  type  of  drama  that  requires 
but  a  page  or  two  of  print. 

The  plays  included  in  this  collection  have  been 
chosen  primarily  for  readableness  and  accessibility 
to  the  taste  and  resources  of  the  smaU  theatre  audi- 
ence and  producer. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

INTRODUCTION   . v 

GIOVANNI  VERGA i 

The  Wolf-Hunt 4 

ERCOLE  LUIGI  MORSELLI      ....  31 

Water  Upon  Fire 38 

Gastone,  The  Animal  Tamer  ....  78 

SABATINO  LOPEZ 125 

The  Sparrow 128 

LUIGI  PIRANDELLO 159 

Sicilian  Limes 162 


GIOVANNI  VERGA 

(1840—      ) 

The  octogenarian  figure  of  Giovanni  Verga  is 
intimately  associated,  in  the  history  of  Italian 
letters,  with  the  movement  that  is  known  in  the 
peninsula  as  ^' verismo, "  and  out  of  it  as  realism  and 
naturalism.  Verism,  of  course,  has  its  distinguishing 
characteristics,  but  it  is  part  of  the  great  anti-roman- 
tic reaction  and  in  Verga  found  such  vigorous,  artis- 
tic expression  that  even  today  more  than  one  of  the 
''young"  writers  is  not  ashamed  to  acknowledge  the 
influence  of  the  aged  dean.  Labels  have  mattered 
little  to  him.  "Words,  words,  words,''  he  once  said. 
''Naturalism,  psychologism!  There's  room  for 
everything,  and  the  work  of  art  may  be  born  of  any 
^ism'.  Let  it  be  born  —  that  is  the  main  thing!" 
The  man  has  always  been  of  a  retiring  disposition, 
disliking  the  appelation  "verist"  as  much  as  Ibsen 
ever  hated  the  term  Ibsenite;  indeed,  when  a  year 
ago  his  country  honored  him  on  his  eightieth  birth- 
dsij,  many  thought  that  he  had  died  long  before, 
and  they  had  to  be  informed  all  over  again  that  his 
"I  Malavoglia"  (1881)  was  one  of  the  best  novels  of 
its  century,  and  that  its  author  was  one  of  the  most 
solid  glories  of  latter-day  Italian  hterature.  That  he 
was  the  author  of  the  intense  "Cavalleria  Rusti- 
cana"  (Rustic  Chivalry)  out  of  which  was  made  the 


i' ' ' '  Giovanni  Verga 

libretto  of  Mascagni's  melodious  opera  was  matter 
of  more  common  knowledge.  Yet  Verga's  position  as 
a  playwright,  if  we  except  this  dramatization  of  one 
of  his  own  Sicihan  tales,  is  secondary. 

He  was  born  in  Catania,  and  began  his  career  as 
a  writer  of  conventional  novels  redolent  of  the 
French  feuilletons.  Yet  in  a  deeper  sense  the  work 
of  Verga  is  a  psychological  unity,  and  close  study  of 
the  early  books  shows  the  young  Verga  to  be  father 
to  the  older.  The  novel  that  caps  his  creations, 
"I  Malavoglia,"  was  intended  to  be  the  first  of  a 
trilogy  devoted  to  a  study  of  what  he  named  'Hhe 
vanquished"  (i  vinti)  but  after  the  second  of  the 
series,  ^'Don  Mastro-Gesualdo, "  he  appears  to  have 
given  up  the  project,  unless,  as  a  French  critic  has 
suggested,  we  are  to  take  his  novel ''  Dal  Tuo  al  Mio  " 
(later  made  by  him  into  a  play)  as  the  closing  volume. 

There  seems,  in  Verga's  work,  to  be  a  certain 
parallel  to  the  labors  of  that  Thomas  Hardy  whose 
life,  too,  runs  parallel  to  the  great  Italian's.  In  both 
the  same  underlying  pessimism,  in  both  the  same 
softening  pity.  An  Italian  critic.  Carlo  Linati,  has 
also  suggested  Verga's  affinity  to  Synge,  for  his  deep 
insight  into  the  fives  of  the  humble  fishermen.  By 
these  tokens  we  are  in  the  presence  of  an  enduring 
figure  whose  influence  among  the  more  serious  of  the 
newer  novefists  is  strong  and  salutary. 

Verga's  atmosphere  is  naturally  in  good  measure 
that  of  his  native  scene,  where  fife  is  fived  amidst  a 
ferocious  intensity  of  passions  and  a  powerful  befief 
in  fate.   His  so-caUed  impersonafity  should  npt  mis- 


Giovanni  Verga  3 

lead  his  readers,  however.  'It  is  not  to  satisfy  a 
Flaubertian  esthetics,"  writes  Luigi  Russo  in  his 
recent  book  upon  Verga,  "that  the  author  of 
*Cavalleria  Rusticana'  tries  not  to  intervene  in  his 
tale;  it  is  because  his  model,  the  Sicilian  peasant,  is 
convinced  that  he  himself  does  not  intervene  in  the 
conduct  of  his  own  hfe. " 

Guido  Ruberti,  in  his  new  book  upon  ''II  Teatro 
Contemporaneo  in  Europa,"  accords  to  the  stage 
version  of  "Cavalleria  Rusticana''  an  importance  to 
Italian  dramaturgy  comparable  to  the  significance 
of  "  I  Malavoglia"  to  the  Italian  novel.  "  The  entire 
theatrical  production  of  Giovanni  Verga, "  he  writes, 
"is  contained  in  a  little  volume  of  pocket  size,  about 
four  hundred  pages  long;  yet  there  will  come  a  day 
when  we'll  go  back  to  it  to  discover  inside  the  sin- 
cerest  and  most  artistic  representation  of  life  that 
our  theatre  produced  toward  the  close  of  the  nine- 
teenth century. " 

The  sketch  included  in  this  collection  was  pub- 
lished in  1902.  Verga's  other  plays  include  "In 
Portineria"  (At  The  Porter's  Lodge),  "La  Lupa" 
(The  She-Wolf),  "Dal  Tuo  al  Mio"  (Thine  and 
Mine). 


PERSONS. 

LoLLo.  Mariangela, 

Bellama, 


THE  WOLF-HUNT 
A  Dramatic  Sketch 


Scene:  A  shepherd^ s  hut  A  night  of  wind  and 
rain  —  the  time  when  wolves  are  abroad.  From  the 
entrance  door,  at  the  left,  comes  the  sound  of  repeated 
knocking, 

Mariangela. 

[All  upset,   and  hut  half  dressed f   hurriedly 
closing  the  kitchen  door.] 
I'm  coming!  I'm  coming!  Fm  in  bed.  A  moment 
till  I  dress. 

[At  last  she  goes  to  open  the  door  and  finds 
herself  face  to  face  with  Lollo,  dripping  water, 
his  gun  in  hand  and  his  countenance  grim. 
For  a  moment  he  stands  rigidly  upon  the 
threshold,  looking  about  with  restless,  sus- 
pecting eyes.  Outside  the  tempest  rages. 
The  wife,  confronted  by  her  husband  at  this 
unwonted  hour,  in  such  weather,  and  noting 
his  strange  looks,  begins  to  quiver  like  a  leaf, 
and  can  scarcely  summon  the  strength  to 
stutter:] 


6  The  Wolf-Hunt 

What  happened?  What's  the  trouble? 

[He  does  not  answer,  not  even  with  an  oath.  He 
is  a  man  of  few  words,  particularly  when  in 
an  ugly  mood.  He  grumbles  unintelligibly 
and  continues  to  peer  out  of  his  troubled  eyes 
into  every  corner.  The  lamp  is  upon  the 
table;  the  bed  made  as  it  should  be;  the  door  to 
the  kitchen  is  crossed  by  a  bar,  within  are 
cocks  and  hens,  scared  by  the  storm,  as  might 
he  expected,  and  making  a  great  hubbub. 
The  poor  wife's  confusion  is  increased  by  all 
this,  and  she  dares  not  even  look  into  her 
husband's  face. 

Good  Lord!  What  a  fright  you  gave  me! 

LOLLO. 

[First  of  all  he  closes  the  door  securely,  then 

hangs  his  hood  upon  a  hook  and  wipes  the 

gun-lock  with  his  handkerchief.   He  mutters.] 

Oh,  fine!    So  I  frighten  you,  do  I?    Your  own 

husband  scares  you  now? 

Mariangela. 
In  this  terrible  storm!  Has  there  been  some  acci- 
dent in  the  sheepfold?  How  do  you  happen  to  come 
back  at  this  hour? 

LOLLO. 

[Circling  about  here  and  there,  slowly,  like  a 
spectre,  dragging  along  his  peasant  shoes, 
poking  the  muzzle  of  his  gun  into  every  nook. 
His  wife  follows  him  about,  in  anxiety,] 


The  Wolf-Hunt  7 

I^m  going  about  my  affairs.  Let  me  have  some 
light  there,  behind  the  bed.  What  the  devil  are  you 
shivering  about?  Haven't  you  enough  courage  in 
you  tonight  to  hold  the  lamp  straight? 

Mariangela. 

[Uneasily,] 
Can't  you  tell  me  what  you're  looking  for? 

LOLLO. 

Let  me  have  light,  I  say. 

Mariangela. 
See,  there's  nothing  here. 

LoLLO. 

Oh,  yes  there  is.   There   must  be.   Here. 

[He  stoops  and  picks  up  a  hit  of  wood  hardly 
more  than  six  inches  long.] 

Mariangela. 
And  you  came  for  this? 

LoLLO. 

[With  an  ambiguous  laugh.] 
For  this  and  for  something  else.  It  must  be  there. 
[Pointing  to  the  kitchen  door  in  the  background.]   It's 
surely  in  there. 

[Strides  toward  the  door  to  open  it.  Mariangela, 
fairly  terror-stricken,  ashen  white,  spreads 
out  her  arms  and  bars  his  way.] 

Mariangela. 
What  are  you  looking  for?   Can't  you  tell  me? 


8  The  Wolf-Hunt 

LOLLO. 

Certainly.    Of  course.   Why  shouldn't  I  tell  you? 

Mariangela. 

[All  aquiver.] 
Tell  me  what  you  need.     I'll  get  it  for  you.    I'm 
your  wife,  am  I  not? 

LOLLO. 

Certainly.  You're  my  wife.  Exactly.  You  go 
ahead  of  me  with  the  light.  Open  that  door,  now! 
[All  at  once  he  springs  upon  her  and  seizes  the  light, 
which  she  was  about  to  drop.]  Ehi,  Mariangela!  You 
want  to  leave  me  in  the  dark  —  so  that  I  sha'n't  find 
anything? 

Mariangela. 

[In  confusion,  stammering.] 

There's  so  much  wood  inside  there!  I'm  afraid 
something  might  happen  if  I  went  in  there  with  a 
light.  Tell  me  what  you  need.  Perhaps  I  can  get  it 
myself. 

LOLLO. 

[After  a  moments  hesitation.] 
Here.   I'm  looking  for  a  cord,  so  that  I  can  tie  it 
to  the  tip  of  this  bit  of  wood. 

Mariangela. 
Do  you  want  my  apron-strings?   Will  they  do? 

LOLLO. 

Yes!  With  a  woman's  apron-strings  you  can  tie 
even  the  devil  himself! 


The  Wolf-Hunt  9 

[He  puts  the  lamp  hack  upon  the  table,  leans 
the  gun  against  the  wall,  and  sits  down  in  the 
chair  nearby,  inclined  forward,  his  legs 
spread  apart,  his  arms  hanging  between  his 
thighs.  He  is  silent.  Mariangela  removes 
her  apron  and  hands  it  to  him;  he  throws  it 
upon  the  table  beside  the  wood.  In  the  mean- 
time his  wife  places  before  him  bread,  wine, 
cheesCj  and  even  his  pipe  filled  with  tobacco, 
for  she  is  so  upset  that  she  doesnH  know  what 
she  is  doing.] 

What  can  you  be  thinking  about?   Where's  your 
head?   One  thing  at  a  time,  stupid! 

[He  takes  out  his  knife  from  his  pocket,  opens  it, 
and  begins  to  eat  slowly,  his  back  to  the  wall 
and  his  nose  pointing  downward.  From  time 
to  time  he  raises  his  head  and  glances  toward 
the  kitchen  door  with  a  look  that  his  wife 
follows  anxiously.] 

Have  you  seen  Bellama? 

Mariangela. 
[With  a  start  she  drops  what  she  is  serving  and 
begins  to  stammer.] 
No.   Why?   I  haven't  seen  him. 

LOLLO. 

[Grumbles  something  and  pours  out  wine.] 
Mariangela. 
Why  do  you  ask?  What's  Bellama  got  to  do  with 
this? 


lo  The  Wolf-Hunt 

LoiiLO. 

[He  wipes  his  mouth  with  his  hand  and  looks 
at  her  as  if  he  hasn't  heard  her  question,  out 
of  lightUss  eyes  that  say  nothing.  He  lights 
his  pipe  calmly;  so  calmly  ihat  the  poor 
woman  gets  more  and  more  confused,  sud- 
denly falling  upon  her  knees  before  him  to 
loosen  laces  of  his  shoes.  He  thrusts  her  hack 
with  a  kick,  muttering:] 
What  are  you  doing  now? 

Mariangela. 
I  want  to  dry  your  feet.   You're  soaking  wet. 

LOLLO. 

Never  mind.  I'm  going  out  again. 
Mariangela. 

[With  a  sigh  of  relief.] 
Ah!  YouVe  got  something  to  do? 

LoLLO. 

[Raising  his  head  and  for  an  instant  glaring  at 
her.    Then,  with  an  ironic  smile.] 
Certainly.    I'm  going  to  the  feast. 

[He  continues  to  smoke,  spitting  now  and  then 
in  any  direction.] 

Mariangela. 
[Silently  clears  the  table,  trembling.  All  at  once 
she  stutters.] 
You  talk  so  queerly  this  evening.   And  with  such 
a  look! 


The  Wolf-Hunt  ii 

LOLLO. 

I  say  I've  got  something  to  do  — with  the  Musar- 
ras.  They're  waiting  for  me  nearby.  We  have  a  wolf 
to  catch  tonight. 

MaRI  ANGELA. 

A  wolf? 

LOLLO. 

Yes.  We've  been  on  his  trail  for  so  long!  I've 
laid  the  trap  for  him.  A  sure  trap.  Why,  if  any 
fellow  is  caught  in  that  trap,  the  devil  himself 
couldn't  get  him  out.  And  now  he's  fallen  into  it! 
Believe  me,  I  wouldn't  want  to  be  in  his  hide  while 
I'm  talking  to  you  now! 

Mariangela. 

[Instinctively  she  first  casts  an  anxious  glance 
toward  the  kitchen  door,  and  then  at  her 
husband,  who  is  not  even  looking  at  her.  He 
is  intent  upon  his  pipe,  relishing  it,  as  if 
already  tasting  the  pleasure  of  having  caught 
the  wolf.  There  is  a  crash  of  thunder  —  a 
flash  lights  up  the  scene  vividly.  She  crosses 
herself] 
What  a  night,  Lord  Jesus! 

LOLLO. 

This  is  the  kind  of  weather  in  which  all  the  wicked 
beasts  go  prowling  about  on  their  evil  tricks.  But 
this  time  the  wolf  leaves  his  hide  with  us.  So  says 
your  good  friend  Lollo! 


iz  The  Wolf-Hunt 

[A  noise  is  heard  suddenly  from  behind  the 
kitchen  door;  he  seizes  his  gun.] 
Who^s  there? 

Mariangela. 

[More  dead  than  alive.] 
It  must  be  the  hens  that  I  shut  up  in  the  kitchen 
—  on  account  of  the  storm. 

LOLLO. 

I  guess  they're  scared,  too  —  like  you.  Look, 
how  pale  you  are!  [He  pours  wine  for  her.]  Have  a 
drop  of  wine. 

Mariangela. 

No.   I  haven't  the  slightest  appetite. 

LoLLO. 

Then  I'll  drink  it. 

[He  drinks^  then  begins  to  whittle  the  wood  with 
his  pocket-knife,  whistling  away,  bloioing, 
deeply  intent  upon  his  work,  and  tying  the 
apron-string  to  one  end  of  the  stick.] 

Mariangela. 
[Feigning  deep  attention  so  as  to  conceal  her 
perturbation;  her  elbows  upon  the  table,  her 
chin  resting  upon  her  palms,  she  eyes  him 
fixedly,  seeking  to  read  his  inscrutable 
countenance.] 
And  what's  that  you're  making? 

LoLLO. 

\Without  looking  at  her,  and  continuing  to  blow 
and  whistle.] 


The  Wolf-Hunt  13 

This?  What  this  is?  This  is  the  biscuit  that'll 
close  the  wolf's  mouth.  I  ought  to  have  another  one 
for  you,  I  ought.  Ah!  Ah!  You're  laughing  now? 
The  color  has  come  back  to  your  cheeks?  You 
women  are  like  cats;  you  have  nine  lives.  [He  tugs 
violently  at  the  apron-string  to  test  its  strength.]  Will 
this  snap  when  he  pulls  at  it  with  all  his  might?  No. 
Your  string  is  mighty  strong!  [Mariangela  continues 
to  stare  at  him,  to  discover  what  he  is  hiding;  she  rubs 
against  him,  just  like  a  cat,  with  a  palpitating  bosom 
and  a  pale  smile  upon  her  features.]  Steady  now, 
stand  still.  You'll  knock  over  the  lamp.  Oil  brings 
misfortune. 

Mariangela. 

[With  an  outburst,  almost  in  tears.] 
You  bet  it  brings  misfortune!   What's  the  matter 
with  you  tonight?  Speak,  in  God's  name! 

LOLLO. 

Nothing  the  matter  with  me.  Do  you  see  anything 
wrong? 

Mariangela. 

I  see  that  you  have  something  against  me  —  with- 
out any  reason! 

LOLLO. 

Ho,  ho!  Now  you're  getting  angry!  You  know 
everything,  you  do! 

Mariangela. 
As  if  I  were  a  child!   You  tell  me  a  tale  about  a 
woK! 


14  The  Wolf-Hunt 

LOLLO. 

A  tale?  You'll  see!  It's  as  true  as  God  above! 
You'll  enjoy  it,  too,  when  we've  caught  him! 

Mariangela. 
Oh!  no!  Not  I! 

LoLLO. 

Why  not?   Aren't  you  my  wife? 
Mariangela. 
[Embarrassed,  her  eyes  moist  with  tears,  ahout 
to  take  his  hand  hut  losing  her  courage.] 
Yes!    Your  wife  —  who  loves  you  so! 

LoLLO. 

Good.  And  the  harm  that's  done  to  me  is  harm 
done  to  you,  too,  isn't  it? 

Mariangela. 

[Timidly.] 
You  are  the  master.   [Nodding  affirmatively.]   You 
are  my  master! 

LoLLO. 

Then  let  me  do  as  I  see  fit,  and  have  no  fear. 

MARLA.NGELA. 

It's  for  you  that  I  fear.  I  haven't  anybody  else  in 
the  world! 

LOLLO. 

Oh,  don't  worry  on  my  score.  I'll  take  good  care 
of  my  hide!  A  fine  thing  that  would  be!  To  bear 
the  harm  and  the  jests,  too?  No,  indeed!  I've 
found  friends  who  are  going  to  lend  me  a  hand. 


The  Wolf-Hunt  15 

[Laughing.]  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I'm  having  him 
caught  by  their  hands.  He's  a  dangerous  beast,  I'll 
have  you  know!  He  bites  when  he's  cornered!  I 
want  to  teach  him  his  lesson  in  my  own  way,  without 
risking  my  skin. 

Mariangela. 
What  a  heart  you  must  have! 

LOLLO. 

And  don't  you  reckon  the  bile  that's  been  put  into 
it?  [Whether  it  is  the  wine  that  has  loosened  his 
tongue,  or  whether  he  finds  pleasure  in  slowly  chewing 
and  rechewing  the  hile  that  he  must  have  within  him  — 
or  whether  he  really  wishes  to  tell  His  wife  the  tale  of 
the  wolf,  so  as  to  quiet  her,  he  continues  to  chatter  like 
a  magpie,  scratching  his  rough  chin  and  almost  falling 
asleep  on  the  chair.]  You  want  to  know  how  it's  done? 
Listen.  You  dig  a  nice  deep  ditch,  hidden  beneath 
dry  twigs,  and  then  cover  the  bed  with  boughs  and 
leaves  and  put  into  the  trap  a  lamb  to  lure  him. 
The  moment  he  sniffs  the  fresh  flesh  he  comes  trip- 
ping gaily  along,  as  if  to  a  wedding.  On  he  comes, 
his  snout  in  the  air!  And  his  eyes  sparkle  with 
desire!  But  once  he  has  crashed  into  the  pitfall  he 
can't  so  much  as  touch  the  lamb,  for  he  has  other 
things  to  think  about. 

Mariangela. 
[Sv>spicious,  closely  scrutinizing  his  face  through 
her  smiling  eyes  so  as  to  hide  her  inner  commo- 
tion, pointing  to  the  stick  of  wood.] 
And  what's  that  for? 


i6  The  Wolf-Hunt 

LOLLO. 

That's  stuck  into  his  mouth  so  that  he  can't 
bite.  One  of  the  men  lowers  it  into  the  hole,  and 
as  soon  as  the  wolf  has  bitten  it,  another  fellow 
quickly  passes  the  string  behind  his  ears  and  ties  it 
to  the  other  end  of  the  gag.  Then  comes  the  best 
part  of  all. 

[The  tempest  at  this  point  seems  about  to  carry 
off  the  hovel.  There  is  a  noise  in  the  kitchen. 
A  gust  of  wind  puts  out  the  lamp.] 

Mariangela. 
[ScreamSf  adding  to  the  confusion,  and  stumbles 
toward  the  kitchen  door.] 
Santa  Barbara!  Santa  Barbara!  Wait.   I'm  look- 
ing for  some  matches.   Wliere  are  you  now? 

LOLLO. 

[Who  has  jumped  to  the  door  at  the  left,  with 
his  gun  in  hand,  threateningly.] 

Stand!    Quiet,  now!    Don't  move,  do  you  hear? 

[He  strikes  the  linch-pin,  as  green  as  the  match  in  his 

hands,  and  lights  the  lamp.]    Calm  yourself.    Calm 

yourself.    Don't  make  such  a  racket  over  nothing. 

[Reaches  to  the  hook  for  his  hood.] 

Mariangela. 
Are  you  going? 

LOLLO. 

You  see  I  am. 


The  Wolf-Hunt  17 

Mariangela. 
Will  you  be  back  soon? 

LOLLO. 

Why  do  you  care  to  know  whether  I'll  be  back 
early  or  late? 

Mariangela. 
Like  that  —  to  wait  for  you  —  to  stay  up  for  you, 

LOLLO. 

No.  Go  to  bed.  You  were  already  in  bed  when 
I  came. 

Mariangela. 

[Embarrassed.] 
I? 

LOLLO. 

You  said  so  yourself.  Go  back  to  bed,  then,  and 
commend  your  soul  to  God,  without  fear,  for  he  who 
is  in  the  grace  of  God  fears  nothing.  I  can't  tell 
you  whether  I'll  come  back  soon  or  late. 

Mariangela. 
I  have  done  nothing  wrong. 

LoLLO. 

So  much  the  better.  Who  does  no  wrong  has  no 
harm  to  fear. 

[He  takes  the  key  out  of  the  table  drawer.] 

Mariangela. 
What?   Are  you  locking  me  in? 


i8  The  Wolf-Hunt 

LOLLO. 

Yes.  So  that  you  won't  have  to  get  out  of  bed 
again  when  I  return. 

Mariangela. 
[Nonplussedf  throwing  her  arms  around  his 
neck.] 
No!  No! 

LOLLO. 

What  does  this  mean? 

Mariangela. 

[Pressing  fondly  against  him.] 
Don't  leave  me!    Don't  leave  me  like  this!    I'm 
afraid!      Better  come  to  bed.    It's  so  cold!    Don't 
you  feel  it? 

LoLLO. 

To  bed?  No.  No.  Many  thanks.  First.  No! 
To  bed?   No!   The  sleepyhead  catches  no  fish. 

Mariangela. 
Don't  you  care  for  me  any  more?  Don't  my  words 
mean  anything  to  you  any  more?    Can't  you  see 
what  a  state  I'm  in? 

LOLLO. 

Yes,  I  see.  I  see.  But  I  must  be  going  now.  The 
Musarras  are  waiting  for  me.  The  father  and  son, 
right  near  here.  You  know  that  son  of  Musarra, 
whom  they  all  call  crazy  because  his  wife  ran  away 
from  him  with  Bellamy,  Bellamy  who  plays  the 
rooster  with  other  men's  wives.   You  know  him. 


The  Wolf-Hunt  19 

Mariangela. 

[Confused^  stammering.] 
I? 

LOLLO. 

Yes,  you  know  him.  Well,  when  Bellama  had  got 
all  he  wanted  he  left  Musarra's  wife  in  the  lurch,  the 
poor  woman,  for  she  really  went  crazy!  Left  her 
husband,  at  least,  after  he  has  washed  his  hands  in 
the  blood  of  the  seducer.  .  .  . 

Mariangela. 
Lord  Jesus!   Jesus! 

LOLLO, 

Ah,  Jesus?  To  have  a  wife  that's  everything  to  a 
poor  man  —  to  cherish  her  as  if  she  were  a  child  — 
to  give  her  your  very  blood  and  hide  to  make  slippers 
of,  and  then  see  her  give  herself  to  the  first  man  that 
asks  for  her!  But  let  me  go.  What  do  you  want? 

Mariangela. 
[Her  hands  joined  in  supplicationf  her  voice 
broken.] 
Lollo! 

LOLLO. 

[Harshly.] 
What  do  you  want?   Speak  up! 

Mariangela. 
Lollo!  Look  me  straight  in  the  face!   [She  sinks  to 
her  knees  before  him  and  tries  to  take  his  hand.]   Let 
me  kiss  your  hand  —  as  if  you  were  merciful  Jesus! 


20  The  Wolf-Hunt 

LOLLO. 

[Freeing  himself.] 
How  tender  this  evening!  You  have  plenty  of 
tears  on  tap.  Let  me  be  off,  I  tell  you!  Out  of  my 
way!  [As  he  opens  the  door  Mariangela  tries  to 
escape.  He  seizes  her  hy  the  arm  and  roughly  shoves 
her  hack  into  the  hut.]  Hey  there!  Where  are  you 
going?   You  wait  for  me  here! 

[He  leaves,  locking  the  door  behind  him.] 

Mariangela. 

[Tearing  her  hair,] 
Why?    What's  up?    Virgin  Mary! 
Bellama. 
[Pale  and  uneasy  he  peers  through  the  kitchen 
door,  then  enters  on  tiptoe,  speaking  in  a 
lowered  voice  to  Mariangela  as  he  goes  by.] 
Good-bye.  Good-bye. 

Mariangela. 

[In  racing  dismay.] 
Is  that  how  you,  too,  desert  me? 
Bellama. 
[Trying  to  open  the  outer  door,] 
Ah,  my  dear  woman!  This  is  no  time  for  tender 
words!    Your  husband  might  come  back  at  any 
moment!    [Pushing  against  the  door  in  vain.]    The 
deuce  of  a  door! 

Mariangela. 

It's  locked,  from  the  outside! 


The  Wolf-Hunt  21 

Bellama. 
Oh!  This,  now! 

MaBI  ANGELA. 

He*s  shut  us  in,  under  lock  and  key!  He! 

Bellama. 

[Uneasily.] 

Why?    What  did  he  say?    I  couldn't  hear  very 
well  from  in  there. 

Mariangela. 
He  said  so  many  things!  And  with  such  a  look  in 
his  eyes!  My  God! 

Bellama. 
[At  first  he  tries  to  act  the  intrepid  hero:  he  pulls 
up  his  trousers,  crosses  his  arms  and  blusters.] 
Hush!    I'm  here!    Don't  be  afraid! 

[Then,  all  at  once,  whether  it  is  his  true  nature 
that  has  asserted  itself,  or  whether  the  woman's 
pacing  to  and  fro  like  a  beast  caught  in  a 
trap  has  affected  his  nerves,  he  begins  to  dash 
madly  about,  on  tiptoe,  pallid,  his  eyes  rolling, 
again  trying  the  door  and  the  iron  grating  of 
the  window  to  the  right.] 
It's  impossible  to  get  out  of  here.  What  are  we  to 
do  now? 

Mariangela. 
I  don't  know!  I  don't  know!  I'm  so  afraid! 


22  The  Wolf-Hunt 

Bellama. 

[Running  over  to  heVj  seizing  her  by  the  wrist 
and  shaking  her.] 
Afraid?  Afraid  of  whom?  Tell  me! 

Mariangela. 
Of  him!  Of  my  husband!  I  never  saw  him  in  such 
a  mood! 

Bellama. 
Speak!   Explain  yourself,  for  the  love  of  God! 

MARLA.NGELA. 

[Dropping  into  the  chair,  more  dead  than  alive,] 
Oh,  my  legs  are  giving  way!  I  can^t  stand! 

Bellama. 

[Furious,  forcing  her  to  her  feet] 
And  now  this!  Don't  play  stupid,  I  say! 

Mariangela. 
Mariano!   My  Mariano! 

Bellama. 

[Shaking  her  hruially.] 

Speak!    Explain  yourself!    Simpleton! 

Mariangela. 
[Sinking  against  the  table,  and  burying  her 
head  in  her  hands.] 


The  Wolf-Hunt  23 


My  husband  knows  everything!  He  came  hereon 
purpose  to  surprise  us. 

Bellama. 

[Agitated.] 
No.   It  can't  be.   Nobody  saw  me,  in  the  dark. 

Mariangela. 

[With  flaming  eyes.] 

I  read  it  in  his  face.    It's  absolutely  certain.    He 

was  searching  everywhere,  with  his  gun  in  his  hand! 

Bellama. 
But  he  didn't  find  me.  And  he  left  without  having 
seen  me. 

Mariangela. 

Then  why  did  he  lock  me  in? 
Bellama. 

[Again  becoming  uneasy.] 
Yes,  why?    [Trying  to  revive  his  courage,  repeats.] 
But  then,  why  did  he  leave? 

Mariangela. 
He  said  they  were  waiting  for  him.   That  they're 
hunting  the  wolf  tonight. 

Bellama. 
Wolf-hunting?   That's  excellent.    Then  where  do 
I  come  in? 

Mariangela. 
One  moment  he  said  one  thing,  the  next  moment 
he  said  another.  He  spoke  with  such  evil  foreboding. 
And  then  he  locked  us  in! 


24  The  Wolf-Hunt 

Bellama. 
[Looking  about  anxiously ^   as  if  seeking  an 
avenue  of  escape.] 
The  devil!   That's  so! 

Mariangela. 
He's  shut  us  in  like  a  wolf  in  a  trap.   Then  when 
he  gets  back  .  .  . 

Bellama. 

[Breathlessly.] 
When  he  gets  back?   When  does  he  get  back? 

Marla-ngela. 
I  don't  know.   He  wouldn't  tell  me. 

Bellama. 
You  never  know  anything,  you! 

Mariangela. 
When  he  gets  back,  he'll  give  us  a  merry  dance! 

Bellama. 
Eh? 

Mariangela. 

[Tearing  her  hair.] 
We've  got  death  hanging  over  our  heads,  you 
and  I! 

Bellama. 

Don't  harp  on  that,  I  tell  you! 

Mariangela. 

[Embracing  him,  weeping.] 
Mariano!    My  Mariano!    I've  only  you  in  the 
world! 


The  Wolf-Hunt  25 

Bellama. 
Yes,  but  let  me  go  now! 

Mariangela. 
You'll  defend  me!  You've  said  so  many  times  that 
you'd  do  anything  for  your  Mariangela! 

Bellama. 
I  haven't  even  a  pen-knife  with  me. 

Mariangela. 

[Her  face  in  her  apron,  crying.] 
Do  you  see  what  I've  done  for  you? 

Bellama. 
You've  got  me  into  a  fine  fix,  that's  what  you've 
done! 

Marl^-ngela. 

I?  I? 

Bellama. 
Who  else,  then?   Enough.    Let's  lose  no  time  in 
prattle.  Better  let  us  find  a  way  out  of  this.  Perhaps 
they  really  are  out  wolf-hunting.   If  that's  the  case, 
then  we  have  time  until  tomorrow. 

MARLA.NGELA. 

I  hope  to  God  it's  so!  May  the  sainted  souls  avail 
us! 

Bellama. 

[Likewise  somewhat  encouraged.] 
Don't  be  afraid,  I  told  you!   I'm  here! 


26  The  Wolf-Hunt 

Mariangela. 

But  he'll  come  with  the  Musarras!    They're  on 
the  wolf -hunt,  too. 

Bellama. 

[Terrified.] 
Eh?  Who  was  that  you  said?  Eh? 

Mariangela. 
Yes,  the  Musarras,  father  and  son. 

[Bellama,  without  further  heed,  makes  a  mad 
dash  for  escape.  All  at  once,  as  if  struck  hy 
an  idea,  he  places  a  chair  upon  the  bed  and 
preparer  to  clamber  up, 

Bellama, 
Up  there.  ...  If  I  can  only  reach  it!     If  I  can 
only  get  to  the  roof!   I'll  smash  in  the  tiles,  as  true 
as  God!  Here,  hold  this  chair  for  me,  will  you? 

Mariangela. 
And  how  about  me? 

Bellama. 
[Standing  on  the  bed,  greatly  excited.] 
Your  husband  can  make  you  swallow  that  tale 
about  the  wolf,  for  you're  a  goose! 

Mariangela. 
And  how  about  me?  .  .  .  when  my  husband  sees 
that  you've  escaped  through  the  roof? 


The  Wolf-Hunt  27 

Bellama. 
[Making  desperate  efforts  to  reach  the  roof.] 
He's  got  together  with  the   Musarras  because 
they^ve  got  a  grudge  against  me,  too! 

Mariangela. 

[In  exasperation.] 
I  know  all  about  it!    Because  of  Nell  Musarra's 
wife.  .  .  .  You  wretch,  you! 

Bellama 

[Agitated.] 
Much  I  care  about  Musarra's  wife  now!  .  .  .  And 
a  fine  moment  this  is  to  make  a  jealous  scene! 

Mariangela. 

[Now  likewise  highly  excited.] 
All  you  think  of  is  your  own  skin! 

Bellama. 

[Furiotis.] 
Of  my  own  skin!  Yes  I  do,  my  fine  lady!  YouVe 
landed  me  in  a  trap! 

Mariangela. 

[Tugging  at  his  leg.] 
And   you're   deserting   me  .  .  .  leaving   me   all 
alone  .  .  .  with  death  staring  me  in  the  face! 

Bellama. 

[Kicking  her  away.] 
Let  go  of  me,  curse  you! 


28  The  Wolf-Hunt 

Mariangela. 
[Exasperated,   kicking  the  chair  from  under 
him.] 
Curse  you!    A  curse  on  you  forever,  for  youVe 
ruined  me! 

Bellama. 
[Furious,  brandishing  the  chair  over  her  head.] 
VW  finish  you!  As  true  as  God,  I'll  finish  you  before 
your  husband  does! 

Mariangela. 
Would  that  Fd  been  stricken  before  you  ever  came 
into  my  life!  Would  that  some  malignant  fever  had 
consumed  me! 

Bellama. 
It  would  have  been  far  better! 
Mariangela. 
It's  all  your  fault!  YouVe  ruined  me,  just  as  you 
ruined  Musarra's  wife,  you  scoundrel! 

Bellama. 
So  now  you're  throwing  Musarra's  wife  up  to  me, 
are  you?   You  didn't  talk  like  that  when  you  were 
chasing  after  me  and  begging  me  to  leave  her,  did 
you?   I  guess  not! 

Mariangela. 
I,  chasing  after  you?    You  miserable  wretch! 

Bellama. 
You  shameless  liar!   You'd  stand  by  the  door  and 
smile  at  me!    You,  with  a  husband  that  was  too 


The  Wolf-Hunt  29 

good  for  you,  swapping  him  for  the  first  man  that 
passed  by! 

Mariangela. 

[As  she  hears  the  turn  of  the  key  in  the  outside 
door  J  she  begins  to  scream.] 

Help!  Help! 

Bellama. 

[Seizing  her  by  the  throat,] 
Shut  up,  damn  you!  I'll  strangle  you! 
Mariangela. 

[Struggling,  biting  his  hands.] 
Help!  Help! 

Bellama. 

[Hearing  the  door  open  he  rushes,  cursing,  into 
the  room  at  the  rear.] 
A  curse  on  you!  Damn  you! 
Mariangela. 
[To  her  husband,  as  he  appears  on  the  threshold, 
on  guard,  his  gun  in  position  to  fire.] 

Help!    There's  a  man  here!  .  .  .  Inside  there! 
.  .  .  While  I  was  undressing! 

LOLLO. 

[Calling  to  the  Musarras  outside.] 
Musarra!    Friend  Neli!    Here's  the  fellow  you're 
looking  for! 


CURTAIN. 


ERCOLE   LUIGI  MORSELLI 

(1882-1921) 

The  short  life  of  Morselli  was  as  checkered  as  it 
could  be  made  by  a  youthful  thirst  for  adventure,  a 
goading  poverty  and  an  underlying  spiritual  unrest. 
Born  at  Pesaro,  he  was  early  taken  by  his  parents 
to  Modena,  and  soon  thence  to  Florence.  Here  he 
finished  the  courses  given  at  the  elementary  schools 
and  advanced  to  the  university,  where  for  two  j^ears 
he  devoted  himself  to  the  study  of  medicine  and 
letters.  He  took  no  degree,  but  his  intercourse  with 
such  minds  as  Papini  and  Prezzolini  helped  to 
sharpen  his  wits,  and  later,  when  he  needed  a 
little  friendly  notice,  Papini  beat  the  drum  for  him 
with  those  short,  staccato  thumps  for  which  he 
is  noted  —  or  was  noted,  before  the  astounding 
conversion  that  is  signalized  in  his  recent  book, 
"Storia  di  Cristo."  To  Papini,  indeed,  Morselli 
owes  not  a  Uttle  for  his  crossing  of  the  Italian  border 
and  for  exaltation  as  a  writer  of  modern  tragedy  that 
lifts  him  clearly  above  both  d'Annunzio  and  Sem 
Benelli. 

According  to  the  evidence  available,  Morselli 's 
life  at  Florence  was  a  strange  admixture  of  ardent 
study  and  wild  debauch.  In  his  twentieth  year,  in 
company  of  his  friend,  Valerio  Katti,  he  suddenly 
launched  upon  a  sea  voyage,  and  before  he  returned 

31 


32  Ercole  Luigi  Morselli 

to  Florence  he  had  wandered  from  Capetown  to 
Buenos  Aires,  to  Cornwall,  to  London,  to  Paris, 
earning  his  living  now  by  his  pen,  now  by  the  most 
cheeky  imposture.    At  Buenos  Aires  he  had  even 
enlisted  to  fight  against  Saravia's  army  of  Blancos  in 
the  war  with  Uruguay,  but  it  does  not  appear  that 
any  blood  was  shed  and  Saravia's  death  soon  brought 
about  peace.   Once  back  in  Italy  —  "the  most  peni- 
tent and  happy  of  prodigal  sons'*  —  Morselli  founded 
a  large   commercial  and  industrial  review  called 
Mer curio,   which  ran  for  no  less  than  five  years 
and  died  of  —  honesty.    In  order  to  marry  he  was 
compelled  to  borrow  150  lire  to  proceed  with  the 
ceremony;  this  was  but  the  beginning  of  straits  that 
often  brought  him  to  the  pangs  of  hunger.  His  mind 
reverted  to  writing,  at  which  in  the  early  days  he  had 
managed  to  turn  a  penny,  and  the  result  was  that 
peculiar  Httle  book  called  "Favole  per  i  re  d'oggi'' 
(Fables  for  the  Kings  of  Today).   The  encouraging 
reception  it  was  accorded  resulted  in  the  composition 
of  the  one-act  play  "Acqua  sul  fuoco,"  which  is 
included  in  this  collection.  The  affecting  httle  piece, 
however,  made  very  httle  impression  at  the  time, 
and  Morselli  returned  to  Pesaro  in  the  dreary  con- 
viction that  he  had  not  been  cut  out  for  a  dramatist. 
His  next  refuge  was  poetry,  and  he  set  about  the 
writing  of  *'Orione,''  his  first  tragedy,  which  is 
poetic  not  in  the  narrow  sense  of  rhymes  and  meters, 
but  in  the  ampler  one  of  outlook,  atmosphere  and 
implication.    Originally  produced  in  1910,  it  made 
the  tour  of  Milan,  Trieste,  Modena  and  Florence. 


Ercole  Luigi  Morselli         33 

The  author,  who  was  encountering  plenty  of  oppo- 
sition among  his  fellow-craftsmen,  was  accused  of 
classicism,  and  perhaps  to  refute  the  charge,  wrote 
the  modern  play  '*La  Prigione"  (The  Prison),  which 
Tina  di  Lorenzo  acted  in  Milan,  Turin,  Florence  and 
even  South  America.  Close  upon  "The  Prison'' 
followed  the  other  one-act  play  here  included,  "II 
Domatore  Gastone,''  which  ran  for  ten  nights  in 
Rome. 

Soon  we  discover  MorselU  in  the  "movies"  as  an 
actor,  and  he  readily  advances  to  the  position  of  a 
director.  The  war,  however,  cuts  short  his  cinemato- 
graphic ventures.  His  great  tragedy  "Glauco"  is 
now  beginning  to  take  shape;  he  reads  the  first 
draught  to  the  composer  Franchetti,  who  is  so 
struck  with  it  that  immediately  he  acquires  the 
rights  to  set  it  to  music.  A  period  of  illness  inter- 
venes, and  it  is  not  until  he  is  out  of  the  sanatorium 
that  Morselli  writes  the  final  draught  in  twenty 
days,  at  Blevio.  He  leaves  the  sole  copy  in  the 
compartment  of  a  railroad  car  and  it  is  recovered 
only  after  a  campaign  of  telephone  calls  and  tele- 
grams. From  one  manager  to  another  it  travels, 
until  at  last  it  is  produced  through  the  enterprise  of 
Virgilio  Talli  and  acted  in  triumph  by  Annibale 
Betrone,  proving  to  be  the  greatest  success  since 
Benelli's  "La  cena  delle  beffe"  (The  Supper  of 
Jests).  The  furore  created  by  "Glauco"  led  to  the 
republication  of  Morselli's  other  labors;  he  had 
already  been  working  upon  two  tragedies,  "Dafne  e 
Cloe"  and  "Belfagor";    now  he  considered  a  new 


34  Ercole  Luigi  Morselli 

modern  play  in  three  acts,  to  be  named  "L'lncon- 
tro.  '*  In  1919  he  was  awarded  the  government  prize 
of  6000  lire  for  "Glauco,"  and  his  future  seemed 
assured.  Declining  health,  however,  led  to  his  early- 
death  from  tuberculosis  of  the  lungs. 

Morselli's  fiction  comprises  the  "Favole  per  i  re 
d'oggi,"  ''Stone  da  ridere  .  .  .  e  da  piangere" 
(Tales  for  laughter  .  .  .  and  tears),  and  ''II  trio 
Stefania. "  The  fables  are  filled  with  cynicism,  irony, 
recognition  of  himaan  vanity,  bantering  mockery. 
Beneath  the  sneers  is  a  spirit  of  tolerance,  and  a  with- 
drawal that  enables  the  author  to  consider  his  fellow- 
men  as  if  he  were  a  god  endowed  with  a  sense  of 
humor  and  of  human  frailties.  The  tales  for  laughter 
and  for  tears  are  not  divided  into  those  meant  for 
pleasure  and  those  written  to  agitate  the  emotions. 
The  title,  I  imagine,  signifies  that  each  tale  contains 
both  elements  in  a  very  human  blend,  even  as  does 
life  itself.  As  the  writer  declares  in  that  strange  tale 
"Italien,  Liebe,  Blut!  —  a  German  novel  left  half- 
completed  through  my  good  ofl&ces,"  in  which 
Boccaccesque  moments  alternate  with  Heinesque 
moods,  "...  I  was  made  that  way :  I  would  laugh 
and  laugh,  yet  at  bottom  I  took  everything  seriously, 
even  as  now,  when  I  no  longer  laugh. " 

The  man  is  fundamentally  ironic  and  symbolic  in 
his  outlook  upon  life.  This  does  not  have  to  be  read 
into  his  lines;  it  is  there,  in  body  and  in  spirit.  No 
doubt  plays  Hke  his  two  tragedies  lend  themselves  to 
the  sort  of  symbol-reading  that  made  the  perusal  of 
Ibsen's  critics  so  hilariously  interesting  when  the 


Ercole  Luigi  Morselli  35 

great  Norwegian  dawned  upon  us  some  fifteen  years 
ago.  Perhaps  this  sort  of  literary  palm-reading  will 
never  go  out  of  fashion.  But  when  one  reads  Morselli 
for  exactly  what  the  text  says,  without  thinking  of 
the  man's  career  and  without  attempting  to  read 
meanings  between  the  lines  and  into  the  phrases,  one 
realizes  that  one  is  in  the  presence  of  an  ironic 
spirit,  a  cynical  soul  gifted  with  symbohcal  insinua- 
tion. The  Italian's  humor  is  the  kind  that  vibrates 
with  overtones  of  a  mockery  that  does  not  spare 
himself;  his  beauty  is  not  the  mere  sound  of  words 
and  the  music  of  phrase;  it  is  instinct  with  connota- 
tions of  man's  smallness  in  the  eyes  of  nature  and  of 
fate. 

I  need  not  indicate  the  symbolic  elements  in  the 
one-act  plays,  which  are  here  for  the  reader  to  enjoy. 
Even  the  modern  play  ^'La  Prigione"  is  symbolic 
from  the  very  title,  which  signifies  the  mental  torture 
of  sustaining  a  family-lie,  of  *' putting  on  a  front." 
It  is  written  somewhat  in  the  vein  of  Giacosa,  but 
tinted  throughout  with  the  author's  characteristic 
methods.  As  to  ^^Orione"  and  ^'Glauco,"  the  first, 
written  about  ten  years  earher  than  the  second,  is  not 
so  good  because  of  its  diffuseness  and  because  it 
carries  less  poetic  conviction.  The  symboHsm  is  less 
effective,  and  while  the  action  is  excellent  in  scenes 
it  is  neither  so  cumulative  nor  so  cKmatic  as  in  the 
later  play.  Orione,  the  god,  is  less  impressive  than 
Glauco,  the  seeker,  and  Merope  is  less  colorful  than 
Glauco's  sweetheart,  Scilla.  In  "Glauco, "  MorselU's 
diction,  purged  of  merely  rhetorical  ornament  and 


36  Ercole  Luigi  Morselli 

free  of  self-conscious  grandiloquence,  attains  a 
memorable  simplicity  that  parallels  the  admirably- 
luminous  simplicity  of  the  action.  The  symbolism, 
too,  is  such  that  it  adds  to  the  humanness  of  the 
characters  rather  than  converts  them  into  the  terms 
of  a  dramatic  equation.  Some  Italian  critics  have 
objected  to  the  symbolic  interpretation  of  these 
two  plays  in  particular.  Yet  surely,  even  considering 
the  tragedies  in  the  strictest  manner  that  so  exacting 
a  philosopher  as  Benedetto  Croce  would  require,  one 
is  justified  in  extracting  the  symbols  that  the  author 
has  unmistakably  put  into  them.  And  so  considered, 
''Orione'*  portrays  man's  helpless  position  in  the  face 
of  nature's  laws,  even  as  *'Glauco"  suggests  man's 
tardy  recognition  that  glory  is  less  than  love. 
*'Qualunque  vita  ^  abietta  si  e  fatta  al  solo  scopo  di 
vivere!  .  .  .  e  qualunque  vita  e  santa  se  un  fine 
rillumina!  .  .  ."  exclaims  Jacopo  in  "La Prigione." 
"Any  life  is  abject  if  it  be  concerned  only  with  living, 
and  any  life  is  holy  if  a  purpose  illumine  it."  We 
have  Morselli's  own  word  for  it  that  he  aimed  to 
create  a  little  beauty  through  his  writings,  and  his 
interpretation  of  the  word  "purpose"  by  no  means 
signifies  an  art  marred  by  the  obtrusion  of  moral 
preachment. 

Morselli's  position  in  the  contemporary  letters  of 
his  country  is  a  considerable  one,  and  already  secure. 
The  triumphant  reception  of  'Glauco"  by  a  national 
audience  trained  in  the  best  traditions  of  the  poetic 
drama  led  more  than  one  critic  to  behold  in  the 
young  playwright  the  precursor  of  a  new,  peculiarly 


Ercole  Luigi  Morselli         37 

modern,  poetic  tragedy.  Amidst  the  ruck  of  fantas- 
tic productions  that  infested  the  ''grotesque"  theatre, 
with  its  plays  labelled  'Visions,"  ''confessions," 
"parables"  —  anything,  indeed,  but  drama  or 
comedy — Morselli  developed  an  idiom  and  an  atmos- 
phere all  his  own.  His  early  death  was  a  serious 
blow  to  the  ItaHan  stage,  for  with  D'Annunzio's 
heroics  and  Benelli's  recent  reversion  to  prose  and 
apostolic  mysticism,  Italy  needs  more  than  ever  the 
unpretentious  beauty,  the  pure  line  and  the  har- 
monious colors  that  Morselli  would  have  added  to 
its  store. 


PERSONS 

BiSTONE, 

a  shepherd 

Riga, 

his  wife 

Oliva, 

their  daughter 

GiGI, 

their  son 

Leopoldo, 

a  sailor 

PiPPO, 

a  young  charcoal  burner 

Dente  Di  Legno,  an  old  charcoal  burner 


WATER  UPON  FIRE 

Scene:  The  interior  of  a  shepherd's  hut  in  the 
Tuscan  Apennines.  To  the  left,  a  fireplace  in  which 
logs  are  burning,  and  before  it,  a  very  rough  table  upon 
which  stands  an  oil  lamp.  At  the  rear,  left,  is  the  sink 
with  a  grated  window  above  it.  In  the  middle  back- 
ground, the  door;  to  the  right,  close  to  the  back  wall,  a 
pallet  stretched  upon  the  floor;  above  this  hangs  a  black 
coat,  and  near  by  a  tiny  table  on  which  is  placed  a  little 
basket  of  unfinished  willow  work.  The  wall  to  the  right 
is  a  rustic,  wooden  partition,  with  a  doorway.  The 
ceiling  is  formed  by  the  rafters  of  a  roof  that  inclines 
toward  the  door  at  the  back. 

At  the  rise  of  the  curtain  the  neighboring  mountain 
tops  may  be  seen  through  the  open  door,  glowing  in  the 
sunset.  Gigi  is  fast  asleep,  stretched  out  upon  the 
pallet;  Riga  is  paring  some  boiled,  steaming  potatoes, 
and  blowing  upon  her  fingers  with  the  noise  of  a 
bellows. 

Riga. 

[As  Bistone  comes  in.] 

Here  he  is  again ! 

Bistone. 
No  use  talking!    That  goat  doesn't  look  well  to 
me  at  all. 

39 


40  Water  Upon  Fire 

Riga. 

[Angrily.] 
What  do  you  imagine  ails  it  now?   Every  little 
while  ... 

BiSTONE. 

Here  are  you  butting  in  .  .  .  you  know  every- 
thing !  If  you'  d  only  hurry  along  with  those  potatoes ! 
I  know  a  thing  or  two  about  animals,  don't  I? 
When  I  tell  you  that  she'll  not  be  alive  by  tomorrow 
.  .  .  don't  make  any  mistake  .  .  .  it's  as  true  as 
if  Christ  himself  had  spoken  it!   No  use  talking! 

Riga. 
Blasphemy!    May  Christ  pardon  you!    A  fine 
head  you  imagine  you've  got!   Who  can  ever  know 
what  you've  got  inside  of  it? 

BiSTONE. 

Now  then!  Those  potatoes  .  ,  .  they're  for  this 
evening!  No  use  talking. 

Riga. 

There  he  goes  with  his  ^*no  use  talking"  !  Shut 
up,  won't  you,  and  you'll  talk  less  nonsense!  Better 
wait  till  Oliva  comes  back,  and  show  her  the  goat. 
Now  she  really  understands  a  thing  or  two. 
And  she  has  a  way  of  curing  those  creatures 
.  .  .  Not  like  you,  who  kill  them  if  you  lay  a  finger 
upon  their  bodies! 

BiSTONE. 

Now  what  was  I  saying?  Chatterbox!  Suppose 
you  keep  quiet  for  a  monent!  I  was  just  about  to  say 


Water  Upon   Fire  41 

that  I  wanted  my  supper  right  away,  so  that  when 
Oliva  comes  back  with  the  sheep,  I  can  send  Gigi  to 
lock  them  ip  for  the  night  and  take  her  along  with 
me  to  have  a  look  at  the  goat. 

Riga. 

Excellent! 

BiSTONE. 

Doesn't  that  suit  you,  either? 

Riga. 

And  Oliva  go  without  her  supper,  the  poor  darling? 

She's  had  nothing  since  her  sUce  of  cheese  this 

morning!   When  you  come  back  from  watching  the 

sheep  there's  no  reason  in  you.   You  want  to  eat  at 


once!  .  . 
ready! 

.  And 

God  help  us 

BiSTONE. 

if  the 

supper's 

not 

Eh!  .  .  .  eh! 
fond  of  the  girl! 

.  .  .  And  now 
Riga. 

tell  me 

that  I^m 

not 

No,  I 

didn't 

mean  that  .  . 

.  but 

•  •  • 

BiSTONE. 

"But'' what?  .  .  .  "But"  what?  .  .  .  When  one 
of  the  creatures  is  dying,  it  seems  to  me  a  body  can 
eat  a  half  hour  later.    Isn't  that  so?  .  .  . 

[The  tinkling  of  a  hell  is  heard  more  and  more 
clearly  —  such  a  hell  as  the  coalmen  are 
wont  to  hang  from  the  neck  of  the  first  donkey 
in  their  little  hlack  caravan. 


42  Water  Upon   Fire 

PiPPO. 

[Looking  in  through  the  doorway.] 
Howd'do,  folks! 

Riga. 


Good  evening,  Pippo! 


[Very  affably.] 


BiSTONE. 

How's  the  weather? 

Pippo. 
Bad!  .  .  .  The  whole  Poggio  Orsaia  has  become 
sullen,  and  in  a  little  while  it'll  be  pouring!  ...  A 
regular  cloudburst!  Let  me  have  my  coat,  Riga! 
...  I  guess  this  time  we  can  really  say  good-bye  to 
summer!  [Going  out  to  the  donkeys.]  Whoa,  there! 
[The  tinkling  of  the  hell  suddenly  ceases.] 

Riga. 

[To  Pippo  as  he  returns.] 
Here's  your  coat  ...  I  sewed  on  that  missing 
button.    [She  goes  out,   looks  at  the  sky  and  the  sur- 
rounding landscape.]  But  where's  that  ninny  Oliva? 

Pippo. 
[Places  his  switch  upon  the  table  and  puis  on 
his  coat.] 

BiSTONE. 

Eh!  She  must  have  gone  toward  la  Cocca.  I  told 
her  to!  That's  where  you  find  such  a  fine  big  shade; 
the  animals  like  it  far  better  than  Tre  Faggi. 


Water  Upon  Fire  43 

PiPPO. 

The  rascal!  ...  So  it  was  you?  ...  I  thought 
so  .  .  .  way  up  la  Cocca!  ...  I  called  her  so 
long!  .  .  .  Bah!  As  if  I  were  calling  the  moon! 
.  ,  .  Let  me  relight  my  pipe. 

[Goes  to  the  fireplace,  bends  over  the  fire  and 
lights  his  pipe,] 

Riga. 

[Who,  in  the  meantime,  has  shut  the  window.] 

The  wretch!    [Noticing  Pippo  hent  over  the  fire.] 

Couldn't  you  have  asked  me?  I'd  have  lighted  it  for 

you  without  you  going  and  soiling  that  handsome 

cloak. 

Pippo. 
Eh!  .  .  .  [Shaking  himself.]  Only  ashes!  Good 
evening,  folks.  [He  pauses  upon  the  threshold.  The 
wind  blows  strongly.  The  first  drops  begin  to  fall]  To'  ! 
Here's  the  rain!  Good-bye,  pipe!  [He  raps  his  pipe 
against  the  jamb  of  the  door,  then  slowly  puts  it  into  the 
cloak  pocket.]   I  had  a  chestnut  stick  .  .  . 

[Goes  toward  the  table.] 
Riga. 
[Suddenly  takes  the  stick  from  the  table.] 
Here  it  is,  Pippo. 

Pippo. 

[Takes  his  stick.   As  he  walks  toward  the  door, 

he  notices  Gigi,  who,   eyes  still  closed,  is 

turning  around  on  the  pallet.    He  strikes 

Gigi  playfully,  but  fairly  hard,  and  shouts.] 


44  Water  Upon  Fire 

Hey,  there!  When  does  day  start  for  you? 

[Goes  out  and  stops  once  more,  while  Gigi, 
dosing  his  eyes  again,  stretches  and  mutters 
unintelligible  words  in  reply  to  Pippo's 
friendly  greeting.] 

Riga. 
Hit  him  harder!  .  .  .  Are  you  leaving,  Pippo? 

PiPPO. 

Yes,  I'm  going  away  .  .  .  Give  Oliva  my  regards 
when  she  returns!  [Turns  hack  a  step,  without  entering 
the  hut.\  By  the  way!  I  haven't  any  loads  for  my 
donkeys  on  Sunday!  .  .  .  I'll  take  you  to  mass :  you 
and  Oliva!  .  .  .  Tell  Oliva  to  be  sure  and  be  at 
home  ...  If  not,  I'll  get  angry!  [He  leaves,  almost 
running  in  his  heavy  hoots.]  Regards  to  everybody. 
Whoa,  there!  .  .  . 

Riga. 

[As   the   hell's   tinkling  grows   less  and  less 
distinct,  she  waves  good-bye  to  Pippo  from 
the  doorway.  Then  she  shuts  the  door  without 
locking  it;  the  water  mxikes  the  door  creak, 
Good-by-y-y-ye!    [To  Gigi,  impetux)usly.]    A  fine 
figure  of  a  simpleton  you  are!   You  disgust  every- 
body! .  .  .  Always  on   that  cursed  filthy  pallet! 
.  .  .  I'll  throw  it  i;nto  the  ditch  on  you  some  fine 
day.   [To  Bistone.]  Well,  then.  Cut  the  bread.   [She 
gives  him  the  bread  and  the  knife,  and  Bistone  slices  it.] 
Oh,  [to  Gigi  again]  I'm  talking  to  you,  Gigi!   Wild 
cat  there,  get  up,  in  the  Lord's  name!   I  can't  recall 


Water  Upon  Fire  45 

how  tall  you  are!   Won't  you  get  up  even  for  the 
potatoes? 

GiGI. 

[Finally  stirs.] 

Hm!  So  you,  too,  listen  to  what  that  black  snout 

of  a  Pippo  says!    Fetch  me  the  potatoes,  mamma 

.  .  .  and  better  keep  an  eye  on  Oliva  so  that  she 

doesn't  come  to  a  bad  end  with  that  firebrand! 


Riga. 

You  must  have  had  some  terrible  nightmare! 
May  the  good  Lord  make  you  see  the  light  some  day. 
I  only  hope  that  Oliva  would  take  a  hking  to  Pippo! 
.  .  ,  [As  she  speaks  J  she  places  a  plate  of  salad  and 
potatoes  before  Bistone^  who  falls  at  once  to  eating.] 
He's  what  I  call  a  man;  not  one  of  you  contemptible 
shepherds!  Do  you  see  how  much  money  he  makes 
with  those  black  sacks  of  his?  I  only  hope  that 
simpleton  of  an  Oliva  will  have  him!  Who  can 
tell  what  she's  mooning  about,  that  girl?  Some 
prince,  no  doubt!  .  .  .  All  on  account  of  those  foolish 
fables  I  used  to  tell  her  when  she  was  a  child!  She 
must  be  dreaming  about  her  Prince  Charming  with  a 
golden  helmet,  mounted  upon  a  black  steed  with  a 
silver  saddle  .  .  .  who  had  heard  of  a  beautiful 
shepherdess  .  .  .  more   beautiful   than   the  queen 

.  .  .  and  then  set  about  seeking  her  amidst  these 
sooty  hovels  .  .  .  and  when  he  has  found  her,  he 
carries  her  off  and  shuts  her  up  in  .  .  . 


46  Water  Upon   Fire 

GiGI. 

Fetch  me  my  potatoes,  mamma,  or  I'll  go  to  sleep 
again! 

Riga. 

Sleep?  You  cabbage-stalk!  Here's  your  potatoes! 
Didn't  you  hear  what  father  said  just  now?  You 
must  lock  up  the  sheep  tonight. 

Leopoldo. 
[Outside,  knocking  on  the  door.] 
May  I  come  in? 

BiSTONE. 

[Through  a  mouth  crammed  with  food.] 
Come  in. 

Riga. 
[Turning  to  her  husband,  in  a  low  voice.] 
Who  is  it? 

BiSTONE. 

Who  do  you  think?  Somebody  on  his  way! 
[Aloud.]  Come  in! 

Leopoldo. 
[Enters.  He  wears  a  heavy,  dark  bluejacket  and 
a  Basque  cap.   Those  who  have  seen  his  kind 
at  once  recognize  a  sailor  from  the   large 
merchant  vessels.      He  is  about  thirty;  the 
sea,  the  sun,  the  wind  have  engraved  a  few 
deep  wrinkles  upon  his  countenance,  render- 
ing it  more  solid,  more  handsome. 
Good  evening,  shepherds!   [He  shakes  the  water  off 
him  and  goes  to  hang  his  cap  upon  a  chair  near  the 


Water  Upon  Fire  47 

fireplace,  saying]  May  I?   For  a  downpour  like  this 
I  should  have  had  my  oilskin  along! 

BiSTONE. 

You're  a  stranger,  eh?  Won't  you  sit  down  and 
have  something  with  us?  .  .  .  But  no,  first  .  .  . 
take  off  that  jacket.  It's  soaking  wet.  I'll  get  you  a 
dry  one  ...  a  bit  ripped,  of  course  .  .  .  the  best 
that  we  poor  shepherd  folk  can  afford  .  .  .  but  it's 
dry! 

Leopoldo. 

No,  no,  thanks!    Don't  disturb  yourself. 

BiSTONE. 

You'll  do  well  to  change  .  .  .  Take  my  advice. 
No  use  talking,  when  .  .  . 

Leopoldo. 

Let  me  have  my  way;  never  fear.  My  shoulders 
are  well  accustomed  to  the  weather!  I'd  far  rather 
take  off  these  shoes  for  a  moment;  I  bought  them 
specially  for  tramping  over  these  mountains.  They 
must  be  made  of  elephant  hide!  Ah,  that's  better! 
•  .  .  I'm  too  used  to  feeling  my  feet  free! 

GiGI. 

[Looks  at  the  newcomer  with  diffident  indiffer- 
ence, and  crunches  his  potatoes. 


48  Water  Upon  Fire 

Riga. 

[Examines  the  stranger  closelyy  with  great 
difficulty  holding  hack  the  questions  that 
come  to  her  lips.  She  seems  not  very  well  dis- 
posed toward  him. 

Leopoldo. 
[With  his  naturally  swift  movements  he  has 
taken  from  his  valise  a  pair  of  Spanish 
ZAPATiLLAS  and  has  exchanged  them  for  his 
coarse,  mountaineers^  boots.  He  strides 
downstage  from  the  fireplace  with  satisfied 


BiSTONE. 

To'  !  There's  a  lively  chap  for  you!  ...  By 
Diana!  How  quick  you  are!  I  wish  you  could  teach 
a  little  of  that  to  my  son  there! 

[Points  to  Gtgi.] 
Riga. 

[Coming  to  a  resolution.] 
But  .  .  .  here  ...  in    a    manner    of    speaking 
.  .  .  How  under  the  sun  did  you  ever  land  up  in 
these  parts?  .  .  .  You  could  have  been  so  comfort- 
able in  the  city! 

BiSTONE. 

[Shouting.] 

And  what  business  is  that  of  yours,  busybody? 

[To  Leopoldo].    Don't   say   a   word.    Understand? 

Not  a  breath!  .  .  .  For  I  don't  care  to  know  a 

thing!  .  .  .  No  use  talking!  .  .  .  Take  a  seat  here 


Water  Upon  Fire  49 

right  away  [strikes  the  table  with  his  palm]  and  have  a 
bite.  Afterwards,  if  it  please  you  to  talk,  you'll 
tell  us  who  you  are,  so  that  we  may  remember  you. 
Understand?  [To  Riga,  irritated.]  Since  when,  in 
this  humble  cabin  of  mine,  has  any  one  ever  asked 
"Who  are  you?''  of  a  Christian  who  comes  for 
shelter?  The  longer  a  man  lives,  the  more  he  learns 
of  a  woman's  queer  ways!  Give  him  a  slice  of  cheese, 
Riga  .  .  .  the  cheese  we  started  yesterday!  [Riga, 
with  ill  grace,  does  as  she  is  bidden.]  Here  you  are, 
and  welcome  .  .  .  Shepherd  folks'  food  ...  No 
use  talking  .  .  .  My  dear  sir  .  .  .  How  shall  I  call 
you? 

Leopoldo. 
Leopoldo. 

BiSTONE. 

My  dear  Signor  Leopoldo!  .  .  .  Just  taste  a  bit  of 
our  mountaineers'  fare! 

Leopoldo. 
If  we  only  could  have  it  always  at  sea!    When 
we're  ashore  we  see  to  it  that  we  eafc  like  lords,  sure 
enough!   But  at  sea  .  .  .  !   You  wouldn't  eat  what 
we  have  to  take  sometimes! 

[Riga,  seated  in  a  corner  of  the  fireplace,  cocks 
her  ear.  —  Gigi  has  finished  his  potatoes  and 
bread,  and  placing  the  plate  upon  the  floor 
resumes  his  sleeping  posture.  Leopoldo 
extracts  from  his  pocket  a  Catalonian  knife 
that  glistens  like  a  mirror;  he  opens  it,  and 
Bistone  and  Riga  are  stricken  with  admira- 


50  Water  Upon  Fire 

Hon  for  its  three  springs.   Riga^s  amazement 
is  compounded  of  fear  and  mistriLst.] 

BiSTONE. 

A  fine  instrument! 

Leopoldo. 
Fine,  eh?  ...  I  bought  this  in  America.  Did  you 
ever  hear  of  America? 

BiSTONE. 

All  of  eighteen  years  ago.  I  had  just  been  married. 
One  day  a  fellow  came  up  this  way  and  told  a  heap 
of  tales.  .  .  You  should  have  heard  him!  .  .  . 

Leopoldo. 
He  wanted  to  take  you  to  America,  too,  didn't 
he? 

BiSTONE. 

Sure  enough!   How  do  you  know?  .  .  . 

Leopoldo. 
My  good  man!  You  don't  have  to  be  a  magician  to 
guess  that!  There  must  be  hundreds  like  him  scour- 
ing all  Italy  in  search  of  laborers  to  take  back  to 
America!  But  why  didn't  you  go?  .  .  .  It's  a  great 
country!  You  who  Uve  on  sheep  .  .  .  There's  a 
kind  of  sheep  yonder  that  has  tails  so  long  and  thick 
that  they  have  to  be  tied  to  the  animals'  crupper! 
I've  seen  some  fine  specimens  .  .  .  The  tail  alone 
weighed  eight  kilos!  .  .  . 


Water  Upon  Fire  51 

BiSTONE  AND  RiGA. 

[Together.] 
Oo-o-o-ooh! 

[Gigi  begins  to  snore.] 

Leopoldo. 
Upon  my  word!  As  far  as  I'm  concerned,  to  tell 
the  truth,  I'm  indifferent  .  .  .  But  you!  .  .  .  Who 
can  say  how  delighted  you  would  have  been!  We 
sailors  are  too  used  to  seeing  a  world  of  wonderful 
things.  There's  nothing  now  that  can  take  us  by 
surprise  .  .  .  except  beautiful  maidens! 

BiSTONE. 

[Without  enthusiasm,  and  even  with  a  slight 
trace  of  instinctive  hostility.] 

So  you're  a  man  of  the  sea,  are  you?  One  of  those 
who  sails  in  the  ships  .  .  .  and  goes  all  around  the 
world  .  .  .  and  carry  goods  ...  I  see,  now  .  .  . 
I  see !  And  how  does  it  happen  that  you  come  up  here 
to  visit  us  shepherd  folk,  who  are  born  and  die  inside 
a  tiny  cabin?  [From  the  distance  comes  the  sound  of  a 
sheep  hell.  He  turns  at  once  to  Riga.]  Do  you  hear  the 
bell,  Riga?  [Then  to  Gigi.]  Gigi,  by  Diana!  ■  What  did 
I  tell  you  before?  Go  and  lock  up  the  sheep  and  call 
Oliva  .  .  .  Tell  her  to  come  here  at  once.  [With  an 
effort,  Gigi  rises  and  leaves,  adjusting  his  sash  around 
his  waist.  —  To  Gigi.]  Oh,  and  see  to  it  that  "la 
Rossaccia"  is  there.  Don't  do  as  you  did  this  past 
Saturday  .  .  .  [As  if  to  himself.]  With  all  this  fine 
talk  I'd  half  forgotten  about  the  little  goat. 


52  Water  Upon   Fire 

[Gigi  has  left  the  door  open.  The  rain  has 
ceased.  The  sky,  covered  with  dark  clouds, 
ho^  hastened  night.] 

Leopoldo. 
Is  this  Oliva  a  daughter  of  yours? 

BiSTONE. 

[Nods  affirmatively.] 
Gigi. 

[Outside.] 


Oliva-a-a-a-a!  . 
A  pretty  name! 

E-c-c-c-h!  .  .  . 


Leopoldo. 

Oliva. 

[OutsidCj  from  a  distance.] 


Gigi. 

[Outside,  as  he  returns.] 
Come    ho-o-o-o-ome!  .  .  .  I'm    locking    up    the 
sheep  toiji-i-i-i-ight!  .  .  . 

Leopoldo. 
And  who  can  tell  how  many  children  you  have! 
You    shepherds     economize     on    everything  .  .  . 
except  that! 

Bjstone. 
No,  no.    I  haven't  so  many!    Only  six  of  them 
living. 

Riga. 

[Inquisitive,] 
And  you?   Have  you  any  children? 


Water  Upon  Fire  53 

[Oliva  enters  J  almost  running  and  somewhat  out 
of  breath.  She  has  heard  her  mother's 
question,  and  turns  her  eyes  to  see  to  whom  it 
is  addressed.  She  hears  the  reply  which  comes 
instantly,  hut  distractedly ,  from  Leopoldo, 
whose  eyes  are  fixed  upon  Oliva's  beautiful 
face  and  shapely  person. 

Lbopoldo. 

I?  No,  no,  no!  Free  as  a  fish!   [Then,  with  sailor- 
like  gallantry.]  Good  evening,  Oliva!  .  .  . 

Oliva. 
[In  surprise,  she  eyes  LeopoMo  from  top  to 
toe,  then  blushing  all  over  she  lowers  her 
glance  and  murmurs.] 
Happy  evening. 

Riga. 
Father  wants  to  take  you  to  see  la  Monica.    He 
says  she's  ill.   But  you  must  eat  first. 

Oliva. 
La  Monica  ill?    I  must  go  to  her  at  once.  .  .  . 
What*s  the  matter  with  her,  father? 

BiSTONE. 

[To  Riga.] 
There!   See?  .  .  .  She  has  more  sense  than  you! 

Riga. 
And  such  sense  .  .  .  Oliva's  got  to  eat  now.    I 
must  have  my  way  sometimes!  [To  Oliva.]  And  you 
listen  to  what  he  says,  ninny!   Can't  you  see  that 


S4  Water  Upon  Fire 

if  we'd  have  believed  him  all  the  time  those  three 
little  goats  would  have  died  ten  times  over  .  .  . 
Once  it  was  la  Calzetta  Nera  who  couldn't  swallow 
any  more;  another  time,  la  Rosa  was  certain  to 
die  while  giving  birth.  Remember,  Oliva?  Still 
another.  .  .  . 

BiSTONE. 

That's  right!  ...  A  fine  time  for  your  long 
speeches!  .  .  .  Listen  to  me,  Oliva.  Your  Monica  is 
a  goner  for  sure!   No  use  talking!  ,  .  . 

Oliva. 
Be  good,  father!  You  run  to  her  in  the  meantime. 
I'll  satisfy  mamma.    I'll  eat  a  bite  and  then  come 
right  away.   All  right? 

BiSTONE. 

Uhm!  .  .  . 

[He  goes  out  grumbling,  Oliva  takes  a  slice  of 
bread  from  the  table  and  begins  chewing  it 
without  sitting  down  before  Bistone's  place, 
where  Riga  has  put  the  plate  of  potato  salad. 
She  seems  agitated,  intimidated,  but  also 
fairly  drawn  by  the  glance  of  the  guest,  who, 
since  her  arrival,  has  not  ceased  for  an 
instant  to  stare  at  her.] 

Riga. 
So  much  the  better  .  .  .  He's  gone! 

[She  sets  to  work  polishing  some  milk  buckets 
with  ashes  from  ihe  hearth.  —  Pause.] 


Water  Upon  Fire  55 

Leopoldo. 
[Breaks  the  silence  with  a  tender  voice  that  does 
not  seem  to  be  his  own.] 
Why  don't  you  have  a  seat,  beautiful  Oliva?    Are 
you  afraid  of  the  sailor  man?  .  .  .  The  sailor  man 
has  a  hard  skin,  but  a  soft  heart!  .  .  . 

Oliva. 
Thanks. 

[Timidly  she  approaches  the  table,  bui  does  not 
take  a  seat.  At  the  word  ^'sailor"  a  slight 
gesture  of  admiration  escapes  her.] 

Leopoldo. 
YouVe  in  a  hurry  to  see  your  httle  goat  .  .  .  eh? 
You  are  so  fond  of  them,  aren't  you?  ...  of  those 
httle  creatures  of  yours! 

Oliva. 
I'm  a  shepherdess!  After  mother  and  father,  they 
are  closest  to  my  heart  ...  I  don't  suppose  you're 
over  fond  of  them.  .  . 

Leopoldo. 
And  you,  just  tell  me  —  are  you  fond  of  the 
sea?  .  .  . 

Oliva. 
I?  .  .  .  Why  .  .  .  but  first  I  should  like  to  know 
whether  a  certain  thing  is  true  .  .  .  Can  you  read? 

Leopoldo. 

Yes. 


S6  Water  Upon  Fire 

Oliva. 
Then  .  .  .  [louder]  Mother,  give  him  Memmo^s 
letter.    [To  Leopoldo.]    That's  my  brother,  who's  a 
soldier.  They've  just  sent  him  to  such  a  far  country! 
Perhaps  you've  been  there?   Ge  .  .  .  Genoa.  .  . 

Leopoldo. 
Eh!   Genoa!   The  deuce!   To  us  sailors  that's  as 
familiar  and  homeHke  a  place  as  your  hut  to  you 
shepherds! 

[During  a  pausCf  until  Riga  returns  from  the 
adjoining  room  with  the  letter^  he  gazes 
fixedly  at  Oliva.] 

Riga. 
Poor  Memmo.  There  was  a  real  son  for  you.  Not 
the  scamp  you  saw  there.  [Points  to  the  pallet.] 
Couldn't  they  have  taken  this  one?  ...  I  don't 
know  what  to  do  with  him!  No.  They  had  to  take 
just  that  one  and  no  other. 

Oliva. 

Console  yourself,  mother!  Only  five  months  more. 
.  .  .  They'll  pass  quickly  enough. 

Riga. 
Here.    [Kisses  the  letter ^  hands  it  to  Leopoldo,  and 
then,  to  herself.]  If  he'd  only  write  again  at  once! 

Oliva. 
See  if  you  can  find  the  place  where  he  speaks  of  the 
sea.  .  .  It  must  be  after.  .  . 


Water  Upon  Fire  57 

Leopoldo. 

[Reading  vrith  effort] 
Here  it  is,  if  I'm  not  mistaken:  ''At  last,  after 
having  heard  so  much  talk  of  it,  I've  seen  the  ocean 
with  my  own  eyes.  What  a  meadow  that  would 
make  if  God  had  created  it  of  earth  instead  of  water. 
How  can  I  ever  make  you  understand  it  all,  Oliva?  " 

Oliva. 

How  big  is  the  ocean? 

Leopoldo. 

My  dear  girl!  You  could  travel  for  months  and 
months  over  it,  without  ever  seeing  land  in  any 
direction!  And  then  the  ocean  is  deep  .  .  .  how 
can  I  explain  it?  .  .  .  If  you  took  all  these  moun- 
tains of  yours,  and  threw  them  in,  not  even  a  tree 
top  would  be  left  sticking  out  of  the  water.  Can 
you  imagine  that?  .  .  . 

Oliva. 

Poor  little  me!  It  gets  me  crazy  to  think  of  it! 
.  .  .  Read  a  little  more  .  .  .  I  do  so  hke  to  hear  you 
read  .  .  . 

Leopoldo. 

Yes?  .  .  .  Imagine  that,  now!  ...  "A  friend  of 
mine,  a  sailor,  just  married  a  good-looking  girl  who's 
the  daughter  of  a  fisherman.  What  a  celebration! 
they  invited  me  and  I  certainly  had  a  great  time! 
.  .  .  But  then,  think  of  a  sailor's  life!  After  a  single 
month  of  wedded  life,  he  sets  sail  and  is  away  for  a 
year!" 


S8  Water  Upon  Fire 

OlilVA. 

But  can  that  be  true?  .  .  .  You  tell  me!  .  .  . 

Leopoldo. 
Of  course!  That's  the  kind  of  hfe  we  lead,  my 
dear  httle  girl.  It's  all  a  saying  good-bye  from  the 
time  you're  born  till  you  die!  .  .  .  Those  who  love 
us  must  be  forever  weeping!  .  .  .  You,  Ohva  — 
you  wouldn't  marry  a  sailor,  would  you?  .  .  . 

Oliva. 

[Hesitating.] 
Weeping  is  no  sin. 

Leopoldo. 
Well  said!  But  suppose  you  were  to  choose 
between  a  shepherd  who  comes  home  every  evening 
.  .  .  and  a  sailor  who  goes  away  and  is  never  sure 
of  returning.  And  he  goes  so  far  away  that  you  read 
his  letters  a  month  after  they  were  written  .  .  . 
And  even  if  he  writes,  ^'I  am  well,  and  have  had  a 
fine  voyage!"  you're  unable  to  smile,  because  even 
as  you  read  ...  he  may  be  the  prey  of  some  shark! 

Oliva. 

[Becoming  serious  and  almost  offended  at  these 
last  words.] 
Don't  say  such  horrid  things!  .  .  .  Read  just  a 
tiny  bit  more,  rather  .  .  .  Does  he  say  anything  else 
about  the  ocean? 


Water  Upon  Fire  59 

Leopoldo. 

[Glancing  through  the  letter,] 
Here  .  .  .  ^'And  how  these  fellows  do  love  the 
sea!  We  men  of  the  mountain  aren't  very  much  in 
their  eyes!  [He  laughs.]  They'd  wish  to  have  all  the 
world  one  big  ocean!  But  I  say  to  myself:  then  what 
would  become  of  our  Uttle  creatures?  Where  would 
they  find  pasture?" 

Oliva. 

There!  You  see,  it's  true  that  you're  not  fond  of 
sheep!  .  .  . 

Leopoldo. 

That's  because  we  have  our  own  sheep!  ...  If 
you  could  only  see  them,  Oliva!  .  .  .  When  the 
fresh  breeze  rises,  they  swarm  over  the  sea's  great 
plain.  .  .  .  They're  whiter  than  yours,  and  there's 
millions  of  them.  .  .  .  And  no  one  watches  over 
them,  for  they  all  flock  together.  .  .  They  have 
no  master,  nobody  knows  whence  they  come  nor 
whither  they're  bound,  they  don't  let  themselves 
be  shorn,  nor  even  milked  .  .  .  But  they're  so 
beautiful  ...  so  free  .  .  .  yonder  .  .  .  upon  the 
water!   If  you  could  only  see  them,  Oliva  .  .  . 

Oliva. 
What  kind  of  sheep  can  they  be? 

Leopoldo.  ■ 

They're  made  of  white  foam,  Oliva!  And  the  wind 
creates  them,  and  they  dash  and  leap  over  the 
waves!  .  .  .  Sometimes,  when  I'm  not  on  watch, 


6o  Water  Upon  Fire 

instead  of  sleeping  I  gaze  at  them,  leaning  like  this 
[he  rests  his  elbows  upon  the  table  and  presses  his  fists 
against  his  temples]  against  the  gunwale  for  an  hour 
at  a  time!  .  .  . 

Oliva. 
Then  do  as  I  do!  .  .  ,  When  I  sit  on  the  hill  top 
and  watch  over  my  poor  little  darlings  .  .  .  who 
walk  hither  and  thither  so  softly  .  .  .  and  turn 
about  me  .  .  .  browsing  among  the  rocks,  and 
gazing  at  me  every  other  moment  out  of  those  clear 
little  eyes  .  .  .  There's  no  danger  of  my  growing 
weary  under  that  sun!  .  .  .  And  all  you  hear  is  a 
wasp  buzzing  through  the  air  .  .  .  Eh!  If  you  were 
to  stay  a  little  while  yonder  on  that  hill,  you'd  learn 
to  love  those  little  darlings  of  mine.  .  .  . 

Leopoldo. 

Eh!  ...  If    I    were    there  .  .  .  Oliva!  ...  it 

would  be  far  easier  for  me  to  learn  to  love  you!  .  .  . 

[While  this  conversation  has  been  going  on, 

Riga  has  twice  gone  into  and  returned  from 

the  adjoining  room  where  her  little  ones  are 

abed.     Twice    she    has  resumed  her  hard 

chores,  when  anew  comes  the  sounds  of  an 

infantas  whimpering.] 

Riga. 
Go  see  what's  ailing  Settimo,  will  you,  Oliva?  He 
won't  give  me  a  moment's  rest  this  evening.  .  . 


Water  Upon   Fire  6i 

Oliva. 

[Rudely  waked  from  a  beautiful  vision  into 

which  Leopoldo^s  words  had  lulled  her.   She 

hardly  understands  her  mother^ s  words,  then, 

with  a  short  exclamation  runs  into  the  room.] 

Riga. 

[Leaving  her  work  for  a  moment  and  turning  to 
Leopoldo.] 
Now  you'll  tell  me,  won't  you,  Signor  Leopoldo? 
Whatever  put  it  into  your  head  to  climb  up  into 
these  mountains?  I  didn't  want  to  offend  you 
before  .  .  .  You  understood !  .  n  .  That  blockhead 
of  a  Bistone  doesn't  know  what  he's  about  .  .  . 
Was  there  anything  wrong  in  my  asking?  .  .  . 

Leopoldo. 
Wrong?    The  deuce!    I'll  tell  you  right  away: 
I  accompanied  a  friend  of  mine,  poor  devil  .  .  . 
One  of  those  friends  whose  like  can  never  be  found! 
[Very  sad.] 

Riga. 
What  happened  to  him?  .  ,  .  Dead?  .  .  • 

Leopoldo. 
No  .  .  .  But  to  me  it's  the  same  as  if  he  had 
died!  He  married  a  country  giil:  a  certain  Virginia 
,  .  .  fromRifiglio  .  .  .  Perhaps  you  know  her?  .  .  . 

Riga. 
[Pauses  for  a  moment,  then  shakes  her  head.] 


62  Water  Upon  Fire 

Leopoldo. 
A  beautiful  blonde  .  .  .  Enough  said!  He  fell 
in  love  with  her  one  day  in  Florence.  They  went 
out  together  and  from  that  day  on  he  has  had  eyes 
for  nothing  else!  .  .  .  But  she  didn't  want  to 
marry  a  sailor.  .  .  and  he  —  nobody  could  stop 
him — looked  about  until  he  found  a  job  in  a  factory. 
And  yesterday  they  were  married!  .  .  . 

Riga. 
You  don't  say! 

Oliva. 
[After  having  heard  Leopoldo' s  tale  from  behind 
the  partition  door,  unseen.] 
You'd  better  go  to  him,  mamma.    He  pays  no 
attention  to  me  .  .  .  Hear  him? 

Riga. 

Benedetto!  .  .  .  What  can  be  the  matter  with 
him  this  evening?  Someone  must  have  cast  an  evil 
eye  upon  him!  .  .  . 

Leopoldo. 
But  such  an  evil  eye!  .  .  .  [Looking  upon  Oliva 
with  desire,  and  happy  to  be  left  for  a  moment  alone 
with  her.]    He  wants  his  mother.  .  .  that's  easily 
understood ! 

Riga. 

[Goes  into  the  next  room  ill-humoredly. 

Oliva   returns  to   her  former  position,   and 

remains  standing.    The  mesh  of  dreams  in 

which  she  has  been  caught  weaves  all  around 


Water  Upon  Fire  63 

her  soul.  She  stares  fixedly  at  the  floor,  follow- 
ing  some  happy  fancy  of  hers.] 

Leopoldo. 

[After  a  brief  silence] 
What  are  you  thinking  of,  Oliva? 

Riga. 

[Singing  in  the  next  room] 
"  I  saw  a  siren  in  mid-ocean 
Upon  a  reef,  and  she  was  weeping,  weeping." 

Oliva. 
I  was  thinking  that  there  are  some  happy  persons 
in  the  world!  .  .  . 

Riga. 

[As  above.] 
"  I've  seen  so  many  fishes  cry 
At  the  sad  words  she  said!'' 

Leopoldo. 
How  beautiful  you  are,  Oliva !  Perhaps  .  .  .  who 
knows  ...  if  you  loved  me,  I,  too,  mjght  be  happy! 
[Arises  and  approaches  her  from  behind ,  glancing 
furtively  toward  the  partition  door  and  the  door  at  the 
rear.] 

Riga. 

[As  above.] 
^'  My  handsome  little  son,  never  fall  in  love, 
Who  falls  in  love  can  never  be  saved!" 


64  Water  Upon  Fire 

Leopoldo. 

Eh!  .  .  .  Oliva!  ...  do  you  hear  that  song? 
Who  can  tell  how  it  ever  came  up  to  these  heights! 
It's  the  song  that  all  the  mothers  sing  where  I 
come  from!  .  .  .  They  all  say,  Don't  fall  in 
love!  .  .  .  And  we  sail  all  around  the  globe,  escape 
from  the  mouths  of  sharks  .  .  .  and  on  one  fine 
day  look  into  two  eyes,  and  if  they  look  back,  we're 
done  for  .  .  .  They  must  have  sung  the  same  song 
to  you,  Oliva,  when  you  were  a  little  one  .  .  . 
Otherwise  .  .  . 

Oliva. 

I?   Who  told  you  so? 

Leopoldo. 

[Embracing  her.] 

Don't  you  think  that  when  this  little  heart  cries 

out  it  can  be  heard  even  outside?  .  .  .  When  you  see 

a  nest,  do  you  have  to  break  it  to  find  out  whether 

there's  a  brood  inside?  .  .  . 

Oliva. 

[Girlishly.] 
I  never  break  them.  .  .  .  understand?  I  never, 
never  break  nests!  When  I  was  a  little  girl,  well  .  .  . 
I  did,  then,  for  I  was  bad  .  .  .  But  it's  a  long  time 
since  there's  been  any  danger  of  that  .  .  .  Some- 
times, do  you  know  what  I  do?  I  climb  up  to  a 
nest,  and  every  fledgling  I  find  I  kiss  on  its  little 
head  .  .  .  Then  I  leave  it  twittering  and  run 
away! .  .  . 


Water  Upon  Fire  65 

Leopoldo. 
[With  a  rapid  gesture  he  encircles  Oliva's  head.] 
A  kiss  upon  its  little  head!  .  .  .  Let  me  give  you 
one,  too!  .  .     [He  kisses  her  passionately  upon   the 
cheek.] 

[Bistone's  heavy  steps  are  heard.  Leopoldo 
frees  Oliva,  who  runs  toward  the  room  in 
which  Riga  is  putting  the  children  to  sleep.] 

Oliva. 

[With  forced  calm,] 
Mamma  .  .  .  Has  he  fallen  asleep? 

[While  Leopoldo  drops  into  a  chair^  his  head 
resting  upon  his  right  palm  and  his  elbow 
■upon  the  table ^  Bistone  comes  in  with  the 
[goat  across  his  shoulder.] 

Bistone. 

[Stopping  as  soon  as  he  enters.] 
Oliva?  .  .  .  Riga?  .  .  .  What?  They've  left  you 
here  all  alone?  .  .  .  And  I  was  going  to  wait  for  ber. 
Much  thought  these  women  give  to  the  animals, 
eh?  If  it  weren't  for  me!  No  use  talking!  Here 
she  is  [laying  the  goat  upon  the  pallet.]  She  might 
have  died. 

Leopoldo. 

[Gathering  his  witSj  somewhat  distractedly.] 
It's  very  ill,  eh?  .  .  . 


66  Water  Upon  Fire 

BiSTONB. 

[As  if  recalling.] 

I  had  you  in  mind,  too,  you  may  be  sure.    I  told 

"Dente  di  legno"  to  pass  this  way,  so  that  he  can 

mount  you  on  a  donkey  ...  In  a  couple  of  hours 

you'll  reach  the  Quattro  Strade. 

Leopoldo. 
But  .  .  .  with  this  heavy  downpour  .  .  . 

BiSTONE. 

[Laughing.] 

To'!    What  have  you  been  doing  all  this  time? 

Haven't  you  seen  how  starry  the  sky  is?  Just  come 

and  take  a  look.   See  how  many  there  are  .  .  .  And 

it's  not  yet  night. 

Leopoldo. 
By  God !  [Arises  and  steps  outside  the  door^  followed 
by  Bistone.] 

Bistone. 
If  I  were  to  present  you  with  as  many  sheep  as 
there  are  stars  in  the  sky  this  minute,  I'll  wager 
my  head  that  you'd  become  a  shepherd,  too. 

Leopoldo. 
How    beautiful!     And    what    a    delicious    cool 
breeze !  .  .  .  [He  remains  gazing  at  the  horizon  about 
him  while  Bistone  strides  grumblingly  to  the  door  ai 
the  right.] 

Bistone. 

[Shouting.] 
Oliva!   By  Diana! 


Water  Upon  Fire  67 

Riga. 
[From  within,  her  voice  stifled  with  rage.] 
Stop  that  bawling!  ...  I  had  just  fallen  asleep, 
too!    Go,  Oliva! 

[In  a  moment  Oliva  appears,  still  utterly  con- 
fused. As  if  shunning  her  father's  glances 
she  sits  down  beside  the  goat.] 

BiSTONE. 

[Takes  the  oil  lamp  from  the  table  and  carries 
it  near  to  the  pallet.] 
And  I  was  going  to  wait  for  you,  Oliva !  Even  you 
no  longer  care  for  these  poor  little  creatures.  Just 
look  at  it  ...  it  doesn't  move  .  .  .  and  the  red 
eyes  it  has!  .  .  .  And  she's  burning  as  if  she  were 
baked!    What  do  you  think  ails  her?  .  .  . 

Oliva. 

[Murmuring.] 
Why!   [Continues  to  stroke  the  goat.] 

Riga. 

[Coming  in.] 
Very  well  .  .  .  Let's  have  a  look  .  .  .  Let's  see 
...  Is  she  dead  yet?    [Ironically.] 

Leopoldo. 

[Returns.  —  The  yearning  for  some  distant 
port  has  already  transfigured  his  counte- 
nance. He  approaches  Oliva  and  she,  for  a 
moment,  suspends  her  examination,  without 
however  raising  her  eyes.] 


68  Water  Upon  Fire 

So  then?  She^s  really  very  sick  .  .  Poor  little 
creature!  .  .  . 

BiSTONE. 

What  do  you  say  to  that?  Oliva  ought  to  under- 
stand! The  other  time  she  gave  la  Rosa  a  certain 
drink  of  her  own  brewing  ...  No  use  talking  .  .  . 
The  creature  got  well  and  was  better  than  ever!  But 
today  .  .  .  She  seems  half  in  tears  .  .  .  What  do  I 
know?  ...  There  must  be  something  on  her 
mind!  .  .  . 

Riga. 

Well,  Oliva!  We're  waiting  to  hear  what  you  have 
to  say.   Why  so  silent? 

Oliva. 
She  .  .  .  she's   sick,    all   right  .  .  .  But   I  .  .  • 
I  can't  say  what's  the  trouble  with  her. 

Riga. 

[Laicghmg.] 
She  must  be  in  love,  then! 

[Dragging  footsteps  are  heard.  LeopoJdo  is  the 
only  one  who  turns  to  look  at  the  newcomer. 
It  is  Gigi.  The  youth  sees  them  all  staring 
at  the  pallet,  so  he  looks,  too.  Having  learned 
what  the  matter  is,  he  turns  without  a  word 
toward  the  fireplace,  where  the  wood  is  still 
burning,  and  sits  down  as  comfortably  as 
possible  upon  the  stone.] 


Water  Upon  Fire  69 

BiSTONE. 

Examine  her  well,  Oliva.  It  doesn't  seem  possible! 
This  time  it  seems  you  don't  care  to  cure  her.  Look 
into  her  ears.  Try  to  make  her  drink  something, 
and  see  how  she  swallows  it  .  .  .  No  use  talking  .  .  . 
Just  look  at  her. 

Leopoldo. 

[Takes  a  basin,  fills  it  from  a  jug  and  hands  it 
to  Oliva.] 

Here,  Oliva.  See  if  it's  her  throat  that's  bothering 
her. 

[Oliva,  in  the  greatest  confusion,  takes  the  basin 
and  thrusts  the  goat's  snout  into  it,  while  the 
three  bend  over  to  watch  the  result.    Pause.] 


Riga. 

She  swallows  it  real  well!  I  told  you  so!  She's  in 
love!  .  .  .  That's  all  that  ails  her!  Let  her  have  a 
good  sleep,  and  tomorrow  she'll  be  romping  about  .  . . 
Better  go  to  milk,  for  the  night's  already  an  hour 
old  .  .  .  [Goes  to  the  fireplace,  hurriedly  gets  the 
milk  pails  ready,  while  Bistone,  sulking,  empties  the 
basin  of  water.] 

Leopoldo. 
An  hour?    It   must   be    eight!    By  God!    How 
quickly  the  time  flew!    [As  if  in  meditation.]    And 
tomorrow  evening  ...  at  this  hour  ...  on  the 
sea  again! 


70  Water  Upon   Fire 

Oliva. 

[With  a  piercing  cry,] 
Oh  the  sea  .  .  .  Tomorrow  evening!  .  .  . 

[Leopoldo  looks  distractedly  at  Riga  and 
Bistone,  so  that  Oliva  may  gaze  at  him  to  her 
hearts  content.  She  fixes  her  desperate  virginal 
eyes  uporv*  his  hardy,  handsome  features. 
During  this  instant,  amidst  the  stupidity 
of  Gigi,  the  unconscious  egoism  of  Leopoldo 
and  the  simplicity  of  her  parents,  a  silent 
drama  reaches  its  climax  in  Oliva's  tender 
soul.] 

Riga. 

[Going  over  to  the  sink  and  tugging  at  Bistone's 
jacket.] 
Leave  everything  to  OHva.  You  don't  know  a 
thing  about  it.  Take  these  pails.  Just  see  how  they 
ghsten!  [She  puts  two  pails  into  his  hands.]  Gigi! 
Are  you  asleep  there,  too?  Mother  of  mine,  save 
him!   Take  the  pails! 

Bistone. 

[Placing  the  two  pails  on  the  floor.] 

Wait  a  bit.    I  want  to  warm  my  hands  a  little. 

I'm  cold  this  evening.  It  must  be  the  years  piling  up. 

[Gigi,  who  had  half  risen,  sinks  coinfortahly 

down    upon    the     stone    again.     Leopoldo ^ 

leaning  against  the  door-jamh,  turns  to  gaze 

upon  Oliva,  who  lowers  her  head  sadly.] 


Water  Upon  Fire  71 

Leopoldo. 
Oliva  .  .  .  [Somewhat   louder.]     Oliva  .  .  .  Why 
don't   you   look  at  me   any  more?     [Fingering  the 
little  basket    upon  the    table.]    Did  you  make  this 
beautiful  basket? 

Oliva. 
[Hurriedly  raises  her  eyes.    A   brief  rebirth 
of  hope  brings  a  fleeting  smile.] 
Yes  ...  I  made  it  .  .  .  But  I  couldn't  finish 
it  .  .  .  You  see,  I  lost  my  knife  .  .  . 

Leopoldo. 
Poor  Oliva!  .  .  .  Take  this  one.  [Unpocketing  his 
Catalonian  knife.]  See  how  beautiful  it  is!  I  bought 
it  in  America  ...  Who  could  have  guessed  that 
I  was  buying  it  for  you!  .  .  .  It'll  be  a  souvenir 
of  me.  [He  opens  it.  The  three  springs  cause  Bistone 
and  Riga  to  turn  about  at  the  same  time.] 

Bistone. 
What  are  you  doing  there?  ...  Do  you  want  to 
cut  her  throat? 

Riga. 
Heaven  forbid!  .  .  . 

Leopoldo. 

[To  the  parents.] 
No,  no  ...  I  won't  touch  your  little  goat.  I  was 
showing  Oliva  how  these  Catalonian  knives  are 
made. 

Riga. 
Ah!  .  .  . 


72  Water  Upon  Fire 

Leopoldo. 

[To  Oliva,] 
And  this  is  how  you  close  it.  [He  closes  it] 

Oliva. 

[Looks  at  the  knife  in  infinite  despair.] 
Couldn^t  you  give  me  something  else  to  remember 
you  by?  .  .  .  Something  less  pretty  .  .  .  and  less 
expensive?  .  .  . 

Leopoldo. 
Don't  say  that,  my  dear  Oliva.  Why  do  you  talk 
that  way?  .  .  .  If  you  only  knew  what  pleasure 
it  gives  me  to  think  that  this  big  knife  of  mine  will  be 
in  your  soft  little  hands!  And  that  you'll  be  working 
away  at  your  reeds,  quietly,  far  up  in  these  moim- 
tains,  and  thinking  of  me  every  time  you  use  it! 
Winter's  coming  on.  Ugly  weather  at  sea.  Many 
sailors  lose  their  lives!  [The  tinkling  of  a  coal- 
man's belly  like  that  in  the  early  part  of  the  actj 
becomes  more  and  more  distinct,] 

Dente  Di  Legno. 

[Outside.] 
Whoa-a-a-l  [The  bell  stops  tinkling.]    Ho,  there, 
Bistone!    Here  we  are!  ... 

BiSTONE. 

[At  the  sound  of  the  bell  he  has  risen  from  his 
seat  before  the  hearth.  He  takes  the  four  pails 
in  his  left  hand.] 


Water  Upon  Fire  73 

Dente  di  legno!  [To  the  coalman,  who  enters.] 
Here's  your  gentleman.  Have  you  remembered  to 
polish  up  your  best  saddle? 

Dente  Di  Legno. 
You  rascally  devil!  .  .  .  Whom  do  you  take  me 
for?  .  .  .  I've  even  put  a  new  package  on  it,  into 
the   bargain! 

Leopoldo. 
[Goes  to  take  his  cap  from  under  the  fireplace.] 
Bravo!   And  can  we  reach  the  Quattro  Strade  by 
ten? 

Dente  Di  Legno. 
If  we  leave  at  once  ... 

•  Leopoldo. 
Then  will  you  be  securing  this  valise  in  the  mean- 
time? 

Dente  Di  Legno. 
Right  away.  [Takes  the  valise  and  is  about  to  leave.] 

Leopoldo. 

[To  the  coalman.] 
We  don't  dismount  during  the  journey,  do  we? 
Do  I  have  to  wear  these  boots? 

Dente  Di  Legno. 
No  stops!    You  leave  here  and  dismount  at  the 
Quattro  Strade.    [Exit.] 


74  Water  Upon  Fire 

Leopoldo. 

[To  Bistone,] 
Then  will  you  take  these  boots,  eh,  Bistone? 
What?  .  .  .  Do  you  really  mean  it?  ...  A  pair 
of  new  boots?   I  don't  want  them  .  .  .  They  may 
come  in  handy  to  you. 

Riga. 
If  Signor  Leopoldo  has  no  use  for  them  .  .  . 

Leopoldo. 
Yes,  yes  .  .  .  Take  them  .  .  .  You'll  please  me 
very  much  by  accepting  them  as  a  remembrance 
of  me. 

Bistone. 
Really?  .  .  .  Why  this  is  too  much  .  .  . 

Riga. 
So  you're  going  back  to  your  sailing,  Signor 
Leopoldo?  To  your  sailing  over  the  sea?  Lord 
knows  how  many  years  we'll  keep  remembering 
you  .  .  .  and  you,  on  the  other  hand,  in  two  or 
three  days,  will  have  forgotten  all  about  us! 

Leopoldo. 
Why  should  I  forget  you?   If  we  sailors  shouldn't 
recall  folks,  how  could  we  live?   We'd  die  of  mon- 
otony! 

Riga. 
OHva!    [Oliva  is  caressing  the  goat  convulsively,] 
Why  don't  you  stand  up  and  say  good-bye  to  the 
gentleman!   Or  have  you  lost  your  head,  too,  with 


Water  Upon  Fire  75 

this  little  creature?  Come  and  bid  Signor  Leopoldo 
farewell!  [Oliva  still  strokes  the  animal.  Then  she 
arises  in  confusion.  Without  raising  her  glance  she 
approaches  Riga.] 

Leopoldo. 
Good-bye,    Oliva  .  .  .  May  ,  heaven    send    you 
all  that  you  desire,  and  make  you  happy! 

Riga. 
Thank  the  gentleman!  .  .  .  What  do  you  call 
this?  .  .  .  Have  you  caught  the  goat's  illness? 

Oliva. 

[With  infinite  sadness.] 
Thank  you! 

BiSTONE. 

And  don't  ever  come  back  to  these  parts,  under- 
stand.   They're  not  for  you. 

Dente  Di  Legno. 

[Returning.] 
We're  ready,  master. 

Leopoldo. 
Good-bye,  Bistone  .  .  .  Good  luck  to  you,  and 
thanks.    Good-bye,  Gigi. 

Riga. 

[To  Gigi.] 
Listen,  you  beast!    He's  talking  to  you!    Come 
here! 


76  Water  Upon  Fire 

GiGI. 

[Takes  two  or  three  steps  forward  with  the  two 
pails  in  his  hand.   Murmurs.] 
Till  we  meet  again.   [Oliva  eyes  him  strangely,] 

Riga. 
"Till  we  meet  again!''    What  are  you  talking 
about?   Do  you  think  that  Signor  Leopoldo's  a  coal- 
man like  Pippo,  who  comes  back  when  he's  sold 
his  load?   Say  "Good-bye"  to  him,  can't  you? 

BiSTONE. 

Good  luck,  and  long  life  to  you! 

Riga. 
Good  health  to  you,  and  plenty  of  money!    [All 
leave  through  the  hack  door  except  Oliva,  who  seems 
petrified,  —  Pau^e,    while    Leopoldo,    who    can    no 
longer  be  seen,  mounts  his  horse.] 

BiSTONE. 

[In  the  doorway.] 
Are  you  comfortable  on  that  saddle? 

Leopoldo. 

[From  outside.] 
Excellent! 

Dente  Di  Legno. 

[Outside.] 

We're  off,  then!   [Shouting  loudly.  ]   Aiuuuu  .  .  . 
Furia  .  .  .  [The  bell  begins  to  tinkle;  the  horses  start,] 


Water  Upon  Fire  77 

Riga. 

Come,  folks.   Hurry.   Get  busy  with  the  milking. 

BiSTONE. 

[To  Riga.] 
Put  out  the  fire,  won't  you,  Riga?  And  go  to  bed, 
for  tomorrow  we've  got  to  get  up  an  hour  earlier. 
[To  Gigi.]  Get  a  move  on.  [They  leave.  Gigi  passes 
behind  the  window;  Bistone  stops  behind  the  window, 
and  turning  toward  the  direction  in  which  Leopoldo 
disappeared,  he  shouts  ^^  Good-by-y-y^-y-ye! " 

Leopoldo. 

[From  the  distance.] 
Good-by-y-y-y-y-ye ! 

Riga. 
[Returns  and  hastens  to  the  fireplace,  speaking 
half  to  herself.] 
Let's  put  out  the  fire,  then.   [She  empties  the  jug  of 
water  upon  the  brands,  which,  sputtering  and  smoking, 
are  soon  extinguished.    At  this  moment  Oliva  leaves 
the  doorway,  from  where  she  has  been  watching  the 
departure  of  their  guest.  She  throws  herself  down  upon 
the  pallet,  beside  the  sick  little  goat,  and  bursts  into 
a  desperate  weeping.    Riga,  in  frightened  amazement, 
turns  around.]   What  does  this  mean? 


CURTAIN. 


PERSONS 

Gastone,  An  animal  trainer, 
FiFi  Rapetta       I  ^  .^^^^^  ^^^ 
Nenne  Rapetta  J  Marchionesses. 
Baroness  Angelica  Del  Branco. 


GASTONE 
THE  ANIMAL  TAMER 

Scene  :  The  room  of  the  animal  trainer,  inside  one 
of  those  huge  circus  wagons  that  make  up  the  rear  of 
the  menageries.  The  stage  is  lighted  only  by  two  moon- 
beams that  come  in  through  the  little  open  windows  in 
the  back  wall.  At  each  side  wall,  a  closed  door.  To 
the  left,  along  the  back  wall,  a  small,  low  bed,  and 
nearby,  a  night-table  upon  which  are  placed  a  golden 
watch  in  its  case  and  a  tiny  shaving  mirror.  Next  to 
the  bed,  along  the  rear  wall,  a  wash-stand,  chairs,  then 
a  corner  table  with  letters,  papers,  post-cards  and  an 
inkstand  upon  it.  On  the  wall  at  the  right,  a  medicine 
chest.  All  around  the  walls,  whips,  guns,  pistols, 
photographs  of  women  and  of  wild  animals. 

At  the  rise  of  the  curtain  there  comes,  from  nearby, 
the  strident,  raucously  discordant  music  of  brass 
instruments.  Suddenly  the  music  ceases  in  the  very 
midst  of  a  phrase.  The  profound  silence  that  follows 
is  broken  by  two  or  three  feminine  cries  of  terror, 
which  are  suddenly  hushed.  Then,  a  revolver  shot,  a 
furious  crack  of  a  whip,  a  clanking  of  chains,  and  at 
last,  a  vast  round  of  frantic,  fairly  interminable 
applause,  mingling  with  shouts  from  a  deeply  moved 
audience:  ''Bravo!'*   "Evviva!'* 

While  the  applause  is  dying  out,  the  little  door  at  the 
right  is  thrust  open,  and  Gastone,  the  animal  trainer, 

79 


8o     Gastone  the  Animal  Tamer 

appears.  He  turns  on  the  electric  lights.  He  is  sweating 
freely  J  his  manner  portraying  the  strain  he  has  just 
gone  through;  his  reddened  face  is  almost  the  color  of 
his  flaming  garb  in  the  Russian  manner,  with  its  large 
black  frogs.  His  long  dark  hair  has  fallen  across  his 
eyes,  which  roll  flashingly  in  their  sockets.  He  is  still 
trembling  with  rage  in  every  muscle.  Strong,  trium- 
phant, he  bursts  into,  rather  than  enters,  the  room  and 
the  boards  of  the  floor  creak  beneath  his  glittering  boots. 
Behind  him,  through  the  door  that  he  has  left  open,  and 
unseen  by  him,  come  Fifl  and  Nenne  hand  in  hand, 
sisters  of  sixteen  and  fifteen  respectively.  They  are 
dressed  in  white,  all  laces  and  ribbons;  blushing 
furiously,  eager,  and  quivering  with  laughter,  they 
remain  standing  upon  the  threshold. 

Gastone. 
[As  he  enters,  grumbles,  among  other  unintel- 
ligible words.] 
That  damned  Fifi!  .  .  .  She'll  pay  for  it!  Tonight 
she'll  get  a  supper  of  fork  prongs  instead  of  meat! 
[He  throws  the  revolver  and  the  whip  upon  his  bed,  and, 
in  the  mirror  upon  the  night-table^  he  looks  at  the 
scratches  on  his  shoulder.] 

FiPi. 

[To  Nenne.] 
How  handsome  he  is! 

Nenne. 

[To  Fifi.] 
How  handsome  he  is! 


Gastone  the  Animal  Tamer     8i 

Gastone. 
[Touching  one  of  the  scratches,  and  grumbling, 
as  above.] 
I  had  that  plagued  beast  so  well  trained  to  jump  on 
me  without  mussing  me  up  so !  .  .  .  Bah!   [Returns 
around.    Beholding  the  young  strangers  he  stares  at 
them  in  wonderment.] 

FiFi  AND  Nenne. 
[Embrace  each  other  tightly.    The  first  moves  as 
if  to  escape.] 

Gastone. 
[With  the  politeness  of  an  athlete.] 
My  dear  young  ladies!    You  needn't  run  away! 
Why?  I  don't  eat  little  girls! 

FiFI. 

[Turns  back,  still  clasping  Nenne^s  hand.] 

Gastone. 
And  what  did  these  noble  young  ladies  desire  of 
the  animal-trainer  Gastone? 

FiFi  AND  Nenne. 

[Look  at  each  other  and  lav^h.] 

Gastone. 
But  won't  you  come  in? 

.     FiFI. 

[To  Nenne-  looking  about.] 
How  charming  everything  is  in  here! 


82      Gastone  the  Animal  Tamer 

Gastone. 

[To  Fifi.] 
Really?  .  .  .  But  perhaps.  .  .  .  For  the  first  five 
minutes,  everything  is  charming! 

Fifi. 

Even  we!   Who  have  come  to  bore  you!    [Nenne 
laitghs.] 

Gastone. 
Ah,    but   you   would   be   charming  .  .  .  for   all 
eternity! 

Fifi. 
Don't  exaggerate! 

Gastone. 
Please  make  yourselves  comfortable.  .  .  .[Offering 
chairs.]  Is  there  any  one  with  you? 

Fifi  and  Nenne. 
No,  no!   We  are  alone! 

Gastone. 
Ah! 

Fifi. 
There  isn't  the  slightest  thing  wrong  about  this. 

Gastone. 
Quite  the  contrary! 

Fifi  and  Nenne. 
For  we've  come  to.  .  .  . 


Gastone  the  Animal  Tamer      83 

Gastone. 

[Laughing.] 
To  ...  ?  The  rest  is  easy  to  guess:  To  look  at 
close  range  upon  a  man  who  was  on  the  point  of 
being  devoured.  Isn't  that  so?  [Fifi  and  Nenne 
clasp  each  other  in  admiration  of  his  prowess.]  But, 
my  dear  young  ladies,  it's  no  easy  matter  to  devour 
Gastone  the  animal-trainer!  .  .  .  My  hair's  a  bit 
rumpled,  and  there  are  a  few  rips  in  my  jacket.  But 
here  I  am,  no  parts  missing,  as  you  can  see! 

Fifi. 
Heavens,  what  an  eternal  minute  that  was! 

Nenne. 
What  a  horrible  minute! 

Fifi. 
You  were  simply  magnificent!   I  was  the  first  one 
to  shout  "Bravo!"   too. 

Nenne. 
No.   I  was  really  the  first. 

Fifi. 

That's  not  at  all  so! 

Nenne. 
You're  a  story-teller! 

Gastone. 
Peace,  peace,  peace!    You  were  both  the  first. 
There!  I  saw  you  perfectly. 


84      Gastone  the  Animal  Tamer 

FiFI  AND   NeNNE. 

Uh!   Really?   You  saw  us? 

Gastone. 
Yes  .  .  .  yes,   indeed.  .  .  .  And    I   also   caught 
sight  of  a  crowd  of  women  nearby.  .  .  . 

FiFi  AND  Nenne. 
Ah!     That   was    our   stupid   mamma.  .  .  .  She 
fainted.  .  .  .  She's  always  fainting.  .  .  .  They  must 
have  taken  her  out.  .  .  . 

Gastone. 
Oh!  This  is  not  at  all  to  my  liking  I 

FiFI. 

Why? 

Gastone. 
Eh? 

FiFI 

If  mother  hadn't  swooned,  how  could  we  ever 
have  come  to  you  here? 

Gastone. 

[To  Fiji,] 
Ah!  Looking  at  the  matter  in  that  Ught!  .  .  . 

FiFI. 

Do  you  know,  we  have  a  terrible  mother?    We 
have! 

Nenne, 
Awful! 


Gastone  the  Animal  Tamer      85 

Gastone. 
An  animal-trainer  of  the  old  school,  I  suppose! 

Nenne. 
You  laugh!    Because  you  don't  know  what  it 
means  to  be  continually  spied  upon  by  two  eyes  as 
big  as  this  [Distends  her  eyes]. 

FiFI. 

.  .  .  That  see  everything! 

Nenne. 
For  twenty-four  hours  a  day! 

Gastone. 
And  .  .  .  suppose  your  mother  were  right? 

FiFi  and  Nenne. 
No,  no!    She's  wrong!    Damned  wrong!    For  it's 
all  useless! 

FiFI. 

.  .  .  Because  we're  not  made  like  all  the  other 
young  ladies! 

Gastone. 
Oh!  Hear,  hear! 

FiFI. 

We  weren't  born  to  do  what  all  the  rest  do! 

Gastone. 
Eh! 

Nenne. 
Indeed!    For  we.  .  .  . 


86      Gastone  the  Animal  Tamer 

FiFI. 

We're  of  the  kind  that  are  destined  to  great  things. 
That's  why!  .  .  . 

Nenne. 
One  of  those  careers  that  gets  your  name  in  the 
papers!  .  .  . 

Gastone. 
Eh! 

FiFI. 

.  .  .  and  then  in  the  novels! 

Nenne. 
It's  no  use.   These  are  things  that  are  felt  inside. 

FiFI. 

And  you  can  understand  us! 

Nenne. 
Yes!   You  can! 

Gastone. 
I? 

FiFI. 

Yes,  for  you're  not  like  all  those  imbeciles  of  the 
summer  colony.    [Gastone  hows.] 

Nenne. 
What  a  strange  life  yours  must  be! 

FiFI. 

What  a  wonderful  novel  your  life  must  make! 


Gastone  the  Animal  Tamer      87 

Nenne. 
Who  can  tell  what  adventures  led  to  your  becom- 
ing an  animal-tamer! 

FiFI. 

If  we  could  only  find  out! 

Gastone. 

Animal-tamer?  Why,  I  can  tell  you  right  away! 
Because  my  father,  heaven  rest  his  soul,  was  an 
animal-trainer,    and    I.  .  .  . 

FiFi  AND  Nenne. 
Oh  dear!  Really?  Oh!  What  a  sin!  [Disilliisioned.] 

Gastone. 
What  a  sin?  .  .  .  Why? 

FiFI. 

But  .  .  .  simply   that?  ... 

Nenne. 
If  you  only  knew  what  stories  weVe  read  .  •  r, 
about    tamers!  .  .  . 

FlFI. 

Marvellous    tales!  .  .  . 

Nenne. 
Just  imagine.    There  was  one  who  was  nothing 
less  than  an  American  millionaire.  .  .  • 

Gastone. 
Lucky  dog! 

FiFI. 

...  and  through  love  .  •  . 


88      Gastone  the  Animal  Tamer 

Nenne. 
.  .  .  through  love  of  a  French  princess  .  .  • 

FiFi  AND  Nenne. 
...  he  became  an  animal  trainer! 

Gastone. 
Oh!   There's  a  strange  fellow  for  you!   Vd  prefer 
the  contrary! 

FiFi  AND  Nenne. 
What  do  you  mean? 

Gastone. 
Through  love  of  a  princess  .  .  .  IM  like  to  become 
a  millionaire! 

FiFi  AND  Nenne. 

[Disgiisted,] 
Oh!  What  horrid  things  you  say! 

Gastone. 
Horrid? 

FiFI. 

[To  Nenne.] 
But  do  you  believe  him?  Do  you  think  he's  speak- 
ing seriously?   How  silly  we've  been! 

Gastone. 
Why? 

FiFI. 

[To  Gastone.] 
No,  no,  it's  all  our  fault!  You  are  perfectly  right! 
One  doesn't  tell  one's  most  intimate  secrets  to  the 
first  person  who  happens  to  come  along! 


Gastone  the  Animal  Tamer      89 

Gastone. 
Why,  nothing  of  the  sort! 

Nenne. 

[Pouting.] 

We  .  .  .  are  .  .  .  the  first  to  come  along!  ,  .  . 

FiFI. 

True  enough!  And  we  should  have  understood  it! 

Gastone. 
But  I  assure  you  .  .  .  that  you're  mistaken! 
How  can  I  help  it  if  I'm  not  an  amateur,  a  dilettante, 
but  a  born  animal-tamer,  who  grew  up  among  wild 
beasts,  have  lived  among  wild  beasts  all  my  life  and 
will  die  among  wild  beasts.  .  .  . 

Nenne. 
.  .  and  decollete  women! 

FiFI. 

Nenne! 

Nenne. 
Can't  you  see  that  the  walls  here  are  covered  with 
pictures  of  wild  beasts  and  bare-necked  women? 

FiFI. 

Very  well.    But  you  oughtn't  to  say  such  things, 
because  you're  a  baby.  .  .  . 

Gastone. 
Ha,  ha,  ha!    [To  Fifi,  laughing.]    This  woman's 
air  really  becomes  you! 


90     Gastone  the  Animal  Tamer 

FiFI. 

[Interrupts  him,  in  a  rage.] 
"This  woman's  air!''   Then  you  imagine  I'm  not 
a  woman! 

Gastone. 
But!  .  .  .  [LaiLghing.]   So  so! 

FiFI.  ^ 

[More  furious  than  ever.] 
Aha!  "  So  so "?  It's  very  evident  that  you  under- 
stand  only  beasts  and  .  .  .  women  of  that  sort 
there!  .  .  .  [She  turns  her  hack  childishly  upon  him 
and  stands  near  the  table.] 

[A  note  enclosed  in  an  envelope  comes  flying  in 
through  one  of  the  open  windows  and  falls 
at  Nenrw's  feet.] 

Nennb. 
Uh!  [Jumps  ha^h  in  fear.] 

Gastone. 
[Very  quickly  dashes  to  pick  it  up,  agitated.] 
Ah!  You'll  pardon  me,  won't  you?  This  is,  er,  a 
very  important  message.  .  .  . 

FiFI. 

You  can  tell  that  from  the  way  it  came  in! 

Nenne. 
.  .  .  and  you  can  scent  it  from  the  perfume  it 
exhales. 


Gastone  the  Animal  Tamer     91 

Gastone. 
[Mumbling    the    letter    in    an    unintelligible 
manner^  and  then,  aloud.] 
...  At  half-past-eleven  sharp. 

FiFI. 

[With  lightning-like  rapidity  she  seizes  the  gold 
watch  before  her  on  the  table  and  turns  the 
hands  back. 
That's  done!    Now  IVe  fixed  him.    [Having  done 
this,  she  begins  to  look  herself  over  in  the  mirror.] 

Gastone. 
[Continues  to  mutter  other  unintelligible  words, 
then  folds  the  letter  and  puts  it  into  his  jacket 
pocket] 
You  will  excuse  me,  won't  you?  YouVe  heard.  .  .  . 
It's  an  appointment  for  half -past-eleven  sharp.  .  .  . 
A  very  urgent  matter.  .  .  .  [Turning   toward  the 
table.]   And  I  must  dress.  .  .  .  And  there's  only  ten 
minutes  to  spare.  .  .  .  [Takes  up  his  watch,  looks  at 
it,  and  makes  a  gesture  of  great  surprise.]    Eh!    [He 
puts  the  watch  to  his  ear.]  But  it's  going! 


What's  the  trouble? 


FiFI. 

[With  studied  indifference.] 


Gastone. 
When  I  came  in  it  was  ten  minutes  to  eleven. 


92     Gastone  the  Animal  Tamer 

FiFI. 

[As  ckbove.] 
And  what  time  is  it  now? 

Gastone. 
Eleven.  .  .  .  Can  it  be  possible?    It's  surely  no 
less  than  half  an  hour  since.  .  .  . 

FiFI. 

Thanks,  ever  so  much! 

Gastone. 
What  do  you  mean? 

FiFI. 

It's  really  not  very  polite  to  give  yoimg  ladies  to 
understand  that  a  ten-minute  visit  seemed  all  of 
half  an  hour! 

Nenne. 

I  should  say  so.  [Gastone  looks  from  one  to  the 
other.] 

FiFI. 

But  if  your  affairs  are  so  urgent,  we'll  leave  just 
the    same. 

Gastone. 

You  must  understand.  .  .  .  Really,  it's  a  matter 
of  .  .  .  meat  ...  for  my  animals.  .  .  .  It's  a  very 
good  bargain  ...  I  might  miss  it! 

FiFi  and  Nenne. 
Ah!    Meat?  .  .  .  For  your  animals? 


Gastone  the  Animal  Tamer     93 

FiFI. 

Very  well.  Very  well.  We'll  leave.  [Sprsading  her 
veil  across  her  shoulders.]  We'll  leave  at  once!  [Show- 
ing little  desire^  however,  to  go.\ 

Gastone. 

[Offering  his  hand.] 
My  most  noble  young  ladies! 

FiFI. 

'Oh!   Your  hand?   Not  at  all!    You  don't  deserve 
it!    I  don't  forgive  so  soon!   [She  turns  to  the  right,] 

Gastone. 
So  cruel? 

FiFI. 

[Turning  suddenly  around.] 
Don't  you  like  it? 

Gastone. 
Of  course  I  don't  like  it!    Come  now,  like  good 
girls,  tell  me  what  I  can  do  to  win  your  pardon. 

Nenne. 
As  far  as  I'm  concerned,  let  me  have  one  of  those 
beautiful  post-cards  with  your  picture  and  a  flourish- 
ing autograph,  and  I'll  be  satisfied! 

Gastone. 

[Going  to  the  table.] 
That's  quickly  done!    Here!     [Nenne  claps  her 
hands  and  dances  about,  but  Fiji  remains  serious,] 

Nenne. 
Uh!  What  a  beautiful  signature! 


94      Gastone  the  Animal  Tamer 

Gastone. 
And  we'll  put  down  the  inscription,  too.   To  Miss 
Nenne.  .  .  isn't  that  right? 

Nenne. 
Marchioness  Nenne  Rapetta. 

Gastone. 

[Writing.] 
Very  happy!  .  .  .  And  do  you  come  from  here- 
abouts? 

Nenne. 
Yes.   But  we  spend  the  winter  in  Florence. 

Gastone. 
[Having  signed  a  second  card.] 
And  this  is  for  your  elder  sister.  .  .  .  What  is  her 
name? 

FiFI. 

The  same  as  your  tiger's.  .  .  .  [disdainfully.] 

Gastone. 
Fifi?  ...  Oh!  I'm  so  glad  to  hear  that! 

FiFI. 

Yes,  Fifi!  And  look  at  the  fine  claws  I  have,  too! 
[She  thrusts  her  ten  finger-nails  in  a  row  directly  under 
his  nose.] 

Gastone. 

Perbacco! 


Gastone  the  Animal  Tamer     95 

FiFI. 

And  let  me  tell  you  that  I'm  not  satisfied  with 
that  gift  there!  ... 

Gastone. 
No? 

FiFI. 

No.  I  want  a  different  one.  .  .  .  It's  something 
you're  going  to  throw  away  in  any  event!  .  .  . 
So.  .  .  . 

Gastone. 

Indeed!    Tell  me  what.  .  .  . 

FiFI. 

Oh,  nothing.  Simply  the  iSote  you  just  got  from 
the  butcher.  .  .  .  [Looking  at  his  coat  pocket,  whence 
protrudes  the  letter  referred  to.] 

Gastone. 

[Not  understanding.] 
The  note  from  the  butch  .  .  .  ? 

FiFI. 

[Who  in  the  meantime,  with  feline  agility,  has 
snatched  the  letter  out  of  his  pocket  and 
flourishes  it  in  her  hand.] 
Here  it  is !  The  gift  is  already  made !  [Nenne  bursts 
with  laughter.] 

Gastone. 
Ah!    This  is  too  much!    [Rises,  ill  able  to  control 
his  consternation.]    I  hope  this  is  only  a  joke.    [Goes 
to  the  door  at  the  right  and  closes  it.] 


96      Gastone  the  Animal  Tamer 

FiFI. 

[Evading  him.] 
But  isn't  this  a  letter  from  the  butcher?    Yfhat 
can  you  do  with  it? 

Gastone. 
Ah!  No,  no!  Be  a  good  girl,  now!   Give  me  that 
letter!  .  .  .  Marchioness  Nenne,  help  me  recover 
that  note! 

FiFI. 

But  just  see  how  fond  he  is  of  that  butcher! 
[Dodging  him,  laughingly.] 

Gastone. 
That  letter  belongs  to  me.  I  beg  you!  I  warn  you, 
now,  that  if  you  don't  return  it  I'll  be  compelled 
to  take  it  by  force! 

FiPi. 
Really!   Oh!  How  excellent!   [With  a  mingling  of 
girlish  and  feline  glee  she  prepares  to  defend  her  prey.] 

Nenne. 
Fie,  Fifi!    Give  it  .  .  .  back!    [There  is  a  short 
struggle  between  Gastone  and  Fiji.] 

Gastone. 
That  letter,  I  say!    [He  pursues  h^r.] 

Fifi. 

[Flourishing  the  note.] 
Here  it  is! 

Gastone. 

You  just  wait!  [Threateningly.] 


Gastone  the  Animal  Tamer     97 

FiFI. 

Yes!   You  think  it's  easy,  don't  you!   [She  evades 
him.] 

Gastone. 
It  won't  be  impossible,  though!  .  •  . 

FiFI. 

You'll  find  me  worse  than  that  other  Fifil 

Nenne. 
Fie!    It's  a  shame,  Fifi! 

Gastone. 
This  little  arm  is  mine!  It  won't  escape  again! 

Fifi 
[Passing  the  letter  to  her  other  hand.] 
But  the  letter  escapes! 

Nenne. 
Dear  me!   Fifi! 

Gastone. 

[Still  struggling  with  her.] 
And  now  we'll  capture  this  other  little  arm! 

Fifi. 

[Trying  to  free  herself.] 
No!   no!   I  say! 

Gastone. 
Here  it  is,  caught!  .  .  .  Ow!  Ouch!  1 

Fifi. 
Have  I  hurt  you? 


98      Gastone  the  Animal  Tamer 

Gastone. 
[Taking  advantage  of  the  moment  to  snatch  the 
letter  from  her  hand. 
Oh!     At    last!     [Triumphantly    he    conceals    the 
recaptured  letter  in  his  inside  pocket.] 

FiFI. 

[Filled  with  scorn.] 
Ah!  Wicked  fellow! 

Nenne. 
[At  first  uncertain,  and  then  with  confident, 
takes  Gastone^ s  right  hand.  ] 
But  goodness  me!  She  really /las  hurt  you!  Look! 

Gastone. 
It^s   nothing! 

Nenne. 
Your  wrist  .  .  .  is  all  scratched  up!  Why,  Fifi! 

FiFI. 

Is  it  possible?    [Runs  to  see.] 

Gastone. 
Why,  it's  a  mere  trifle! 

Fifi. 

[Genuinely  affected.] 
Oh,  dear  me!    What  a  long  scratch!    However 
could  I  have  done  it !   It's  always  that  way.   I  never 
realize  it.  .  .  . 

Nenne. 
But  the  persons  who  get  the  scratch  realize  it. 


Gastone  the  Animal  Tamer     99 

Gastone. 
No,  no,  I  say.  Let  there  be  peace.  It  will  be  a 
souvenir  that  will  disappear  only  too  soon!  .  .  . 
[Glancing  at  the  watch,  and,  with  evident  desire  to  he 
rid  of  them,  extending  his  hand.]  A  nice  handshake, 
now! 

Nenne. 
But  are  you  going  to  leave  that  wound  as  it  is? 

Gastone. 
Wound?    [Laitghing.] 

FlFI. 

It  certainly  needs  attention! 

Gastone. 
Attention?  .  .  .  What  the  deuce  are  you  talking 
about!  I'll  cure  it  with  a  little  fresh  water!  [Again 
he  extends  his  hand  and  walks  toward  the  door  with 
them,  as  if  to  accompany  them  out.]  You  may  run 
along,  then,  and  rest  easy  on  that  score.  .  .  . 

FiFI. 

[In  confusion,] 
No,  no,  no!  Not  at  all  easy! 

Nenne. 
Take  care!    Finger-nail  scratches  are  dangerous! 
We  know  all  about  it,  we  do !  Our  mamma  is  a  Lady 
of  the  Red  Cross !  We'll  make  you  a  model  bandage ! 
You'll  see! 

Gastone. 
By  no  means! 


loo    Gastone  the  Animal  Tamer 

FiFI. 

Yes,  I  say!  You'll  see  how  content  you'll  be  after 
it's  done.  After  the  accident  that  happened  to  you 
this  evening  I  thought  of  a  beautiful  bandage  on  your 
arm! 

Nenne. 

It  will  be  twice  as  interesting!  You'll  see  what 
an  ejffect  it  will  have  upon  the  ladies !  [Runs  to  the 
medicine  chest.] 

FlFI. 

And  also  upon  your  .  .  .  butcher! 
Gastone. 

Upon  my  butch  .  .  .  !  [Understanding  her 
insinuation,  he  is  somewhat  provoked.]  Ah!  I  beg 
you  leave  me.  Don't  insist.  [Showing  his  wrist.] 
Can't  you  see,  it's  all  better! 

Nenne. 
[Returning  with  plenty  of  cotton,  gauze,  iodine 
and  other  ingredients.] 
Here's  all  we  need! 

FiFI. 

Good  for  you,  Nenne!  Place  the  stujff  there! 
[Points  to  a  chair.] 

Gastone. 
Oh!  Here's  a  pretty  mess!  Where  did  you  get  all 
that   hospital? 

Nenne. 
Inside  there!   Don't  you  think  I  know  a  medicine 
chest  when  I  see  one?  At  a  glance! 


Gastone  the  Animal  Tamer    loi 

FiFI. 

Get  me  a  basin. 

Gastone. 
But  I  don't  want  this!   I  can  attend  to  my  own 
needs,  at  my  convenience. 

FiFI. 

You  keep  still!  You  can't  imagine  how  extraor- 
dinarily striking  you'll  look  with  your  arm  in  a 
sling.  .  .  .  Everybody  asking  you:  "What's  this? 
What's  this?"  and  you,  curling  your  mustache: 
"  Oh,  nothing,  nothing.  A  present  from  that  rascally 
Fifi!"  .  .  .  And  you  won't  be  telling  a  lie!  .  .  . 
[She  laughs,  and  for  a  moment  Gastone  himself  cannot 
help  laughing.]  What  wouldn't  I  give  to  be  there 
when  you  say  that!  .  .  . 

Nenne. 
[Laughing  a^  she  prepares  the  various  articles 
for  the  operation,  arraying  them  upon  three 
chairs  ranged  in  a  row,] 
Ah!  How  beautiful! 

Gastone. 
[Looking  impatiently  at  Ms  watch,  raises  his 
eyes  desparingly  to  the  ceiling.   Aside.] 
If  good  Saint  Anthony  would  only  do  me  the 
favor  of  sending  their  mother  after  them! 

Fifi. 
What's  that? 


I02    Gastone  the  Animal  Tamer 

Gastone. 
After  all,  you  ought  to  remember    that    your 
mother  must  be  anxious.  .  .  . 

Nenne. 
That  will  make  a  fine  opportunity  to  talk  French! 

Gastone. 
?! 

FiFi  AND  Nenne. 
Surely!     When   mamma  is  greatly  excited  she 
always  talks  French!  .  .  .  [They  laugh.]    She  was 
educated  at  Geneva. 

Gastone. 
Yes,  yes.    But  if  I  were  in  your  shoes,  Vd  give 
a    serious  —  a    really    serious  —  thought    to    my 
affairs.    [Looks  again  at  his  watch,  then  puts  it  up 
to  his  ear.] 

FiFi  AND  Nenne. 
[Still  busy  with  their  medical  preparations^ 
Why? 

Gastone. 
It  doesn't  seem  to  occur  to  you  that  some  one 
may  have  seen  you  come  this  way. 

FiFi  AND  Nenne. 
Impossible!   Utterly  impossible! 

Gastone. 
That's  what  you  say! 


Gastone  the  Animal  Tamer    103 

FiFI. 

Never  you  mind.  There's  no  use  in  your  trying  to 
scare  us.  I  refuse  to  surrender  the  pleasure  of  send- 
ing you  about  with  this  marvellous  bandage  that 
I'm  making  for  you.  Stop  looking  at  that  watch! 
Come  here!  You'll  see  what  a  wonderful  bandage 
we  have  for  you  inside  of  five  minutes! 

Nenne. 
Right  away.  Well,  we're  waiting  for  you. 

FiFI. 

Give  your  arm  here. 

Gastone. 

[Resigned,] 
Very  well.    Here  you  are. 

FiFI. 

[Rolling  up  his  sleeves  to  the  elbow  and  holding 
his  arm  over  the  basin.] 
The  sublimate. 

Nenne. 
[On  the  point  of  getting  it,  when  she  stops  in 
admiration.] 
How  beautiful!    It  looks  exactly  like  that  arm 
the  monks  had  us  copy  this  year.   Isn't  that  so,  Fifi? 

FiFI. 

[Following  with  her  thumb  the  outlines  of  the 
muscles  and  examining  the  arm  from  all 


In  every  detail! 


I04    Gastone  the  Animal  Tamer 

Gastone. 
Ah!   This  is  really  charming! 

FlFI. 

Never  you  mind.  You  may  well  be  proud.  It  was 
a  copy  of  the  statue  of  David! 

Gastone. 
Ah!   The  famous  David  of  Raphael! 

FiFI  AND   NeNNE. 

No!   Of  Michelangelo!  ! 

Gastone. 
Right    you    are!     I'm    always   confusing   those 
fellows.    They  were  both  of  them  such  fine  chaps! 
.  .  .  But  what  are  you  doing?   I  don't  want  any  of 
that  vile  smelling  stuff! 

FiFI  AND   NeNNE. 

Iodoform!  You've  got  to!  The  devil!  Leave  these 
matters  to  persons  who  know!  If  it  doesn't  smell  a 
little  nobody '11  believe  it's  a  dangerous  wound! 

Gastone. 
That  doesn't  make  a  particle  of  difference  to  me  I 

FiFI. 

You're  wrong. 

Nenne. 
Just  a  little,  little  bit.    There  1   So!   [Gastone  looks 
helplessly  at  the  ceiling  and  then  at  his  watch.] 


Gastone  the  Animal  Tamer    105 

FiFI. 

Now  the  cotton.    [Nenne  fetches  a  great  quantity 
of  cotton.] 

Gastone. 
Eh?   Why  youVe  got  a  mattress  there! 

FiFI. 

It's  necessary!   You'll  see  what  a  bandage  that'll 
be! 

Nenne. 
[Winds  a  long  roll  of  gauze  around  his  arm.] 
Just  take  a  look  at  that! 

FiFI. 

That  isn't  good  at  all!    [Takes  the  roll  of  gauze.] 
Here!   This  is  the  way. 

Gastone. 
My  hand,  too? 

FiFI. 

Of  course!    It'll  look  better. 

Nenne. 
It'll  be  more  interesting. 

FiFI. 

You'll  see  what  a  demonstration  you'll  receive 
tomorrow  evening! 

Nenne. 

[Snatching  the  roll  of  gauze.\ 
No  not  like  that!  I  tell  you  that's  not  the  way! 


ic6    Gastone  the  Animal  Tamer 

Fin. 
And  I  say  it  is! 

Nenne. 
It  isn't! 

FiFI. 

It  is! 

Nenne. 
It  isn't!    [Alternately  they  snatch  the  roll  of  gauze 
out  of  each  other^s  grasp.] 

Gastone. 

[Listening.] 
Hush! 

FiFi  AND  Nenne. 

Eh?  What  is  it?  Good  Lord!   [The  roll  falls  to  the 
ground.] 

Gastone. 

Sh!    [In  a  low  voice.]    The  dog's  growHng.    Some 
stranger  is  approaching.  .  .  . 

FiFi  AND  Nenne. 

[Clasping  each  other.] 
Oh,  Lord! 

Gastone. 
Your  mother,    perhaps.  .  .  .  The  footsteps   are 
coming  from   this  direction  [He    indicates  the  left] 
so  that  I'd  advise  you  to  escape  at  once  that  way. 
[Points  to  the  door  at  the  right.] 

FiFI. 

Escape?    Impossible,    signor  Trainer!    Our    legs 
wouldn't  stir.  .  .  .  Hide  us! 


Gastone  the  Animal  Tamer    107 

Nenne. 
Yes,   yes! 

Gastone. 
This  is  maddening! 

[Suddenly  Fiji  runs  to  the  switch  and  turns  off 
the  electric  light] 

Nenne. 
What  are  you  doing? 

Gastone. 
What  are  you  up  to,  confound  it  all! 

Nenne. 
You^re  making  matters  worse,  I  tell  you. 

FiFI. 

No!    If  they  see  it's  dark,  they  won't  know. 
Because  they'll  be  sure  that  we're  not  here. 

Nenne. 
But  suppose  they  saw  the  light  before.  .  .  . 

FiPi. 
Then  this  gentleman  will  certainly  find  a  way  to 
hide  us.  .  .  . 

Gastone. 
So!    You  think  so,  do  you?    Well,  instead,  I'll 
throw  the  door  wide  open  to  your  mother!    And 
I'll    shout   my  innocence,   and  be   well   believed! 
You'll  see.  .  .  . 


io8    Gastone  the  Animal  Tamer 

A  Woman's  Voice. 
Gastone!    [After  an  instant  of  surprise j  the  sides, 
'psychologically  speaking,   are   reversed.     Gastone   is 
astounded,  while  the  two  young  ladies  are  seized  with 
a  mad  desire  to  dance.] 

FiFI. 

[To  Gastone.] 
You  have  a  caller!   [Laughs.] 

Gastone. 
[Rolling  his  eyes,  threatening  with  his  finger^ 
and  speaking  with  a  stifled  voice.] 
That  watch  was  tampered  with!     It's  half -past 
eleven! 

FiFI. 

[Quickly.] 
Then  it's  the  butcher!  [Nenne  bursts  into  lau^ghter.] 

Gastone. 
[With  wild  gestures  demanding  silence.] 
Sh! 

The  Voice. 

[Somewhat  louder.] 
Gastone! 

FiFi  AND  Nenne. 
And  now?  Where  are  you  going  to  put  us? 

Gastone. 

[Beyond  himself.] 

Vm  going  to  send  you  off!  All  the  worse  for  you. 

.  •  .  It's  your  fault  if  you're  found  here.    I  did  my 


Gastone  the  Animal  Tamer    109 

best  to  get  you  out  in  time.  .  .  .  Now  I'm  going 
out  to  see  this  lady.  In  the  meantime,  make  your 
escape  by  gliding  along  the  side  of  the  wagon. 
The  dog  is  held  in  a  short  leash,  so  there's  no  fear 
on, that  score. 

The  Voice. 

[Louder  and  impatient] 
Gastone! 

Gastone. 
[Trying    to   impart  sweet  accents  to  a  voice 
quivering  with  excitement,] 
Oh!  I  am  here.  .  .  dear.  .  .  . 

The  Voice. 
Were  you  asleep?  And  this  dog?  .  .  . 

Gastone. 
He's  tied.    Come  nearer.  ... 

The  Voice. 

[Drawing  near.] 
Ah!    Beneath  your  window  ...  by  the  light  of 
the  moon.  .  .  .  Do  you  want  me  to  sing  you  a 
serenade?  .  .  . 

Gastone. 
You  look  so   beautiful,  all  black  in  the  white 
shimmer  of  the  moon!    [He  makes  signs  to  the  two 
girls  to  escape.] 

The  Voice. 
Have  you  become  a  poet? 


no    Gastone  the  Animal  Tamer 

Gastone. 

[At  his  wits'  end.] 
Indeed!    [Makes  new  signs,  as  above,  hut  in  vain. 
Fifi  and  Nenne  clasp  each  other  by  the  hand  and  com- 
municate   their   impressions   by  means    of  repeated 
pressures  and  stifled  shrieks.] 

Fifi. 
Is  it  she? 

Nenne. 
Can't  you  hear?  It's  she! 

Fifi. 

[Scornfully.] 
Always  she. 

Nenne. 
Disgusting. 

Fifi. 
She,  all  the  time. 

The  Voice. 
But  what  are  you  doing  with  your  hand  behind 
there? 

Gastone. 
[Taking  advantage  of  the  moment  to  glare  at 
Fifi  and  Nenne.] 
Nothing,  nothing.    I  was  bandaging  a  hand.  .  .  . 
[Cuts  the  gauze,  holds  his  head  stiff  then  makes  a  vain 
effort  to  pull  back  his  coat  sleeve.] 

The  Voice. 
Did  you  hurt  yourself?  I  must  see. 


Gastone  the  Animal  Tamer    iii 

Gastone. 
No,  no!    Stay  there  yet  a  moment.    You  are  so 
beautiful!    [Renews  Ms  desperate  signalling  to  Fiji 
and  Nenne.] 

FiFI. 

"So  beautiful!"  Yes,  we 'know  her!  So  well  done 
up,  he  means! 

Nenne. 

She  weighs  as  much  as  both  of  us  put  together. 
What  can  a  man  do  with  all  that  tonnage? 

FiFI. 

You  think  she's  really  a  baroness! 

Nenne. 
She  was  a  nursemaid! 

FiFI. 

She  married  her  employer. 

Nenne. 
And  then  she  made  him  die  of  a  broken  heart! 

FiFI. 

That's  the  kind  of  woman  you  love! 

Nenne. 
And  if  you  ever  heard  the  stories  they  tell  of  her! 

FlFI. 

She  makes  a  specialty  of  aviators!  [Gastone, 
during  this  episode,  has  been  making  the  most 
desperate  gestures.] 


112    Gastone  the  Animal  Tamer 

FiFI  AND  NeNNE. 

Yes,  yes.    We're  going.    Our  best  regards.    Our 
compliments!    [They  leave.] 

[Gastone  cannot  restrain  a  deep  sigh  of  relief.] 

The  Voice. 
What's  the  matter? 

Gastone. 
I  gaze  upon  you  .  .  .  and  I  sigh! 

The  Voice. 
But  have  you  really  become  a  poet? 

Gastone. 
My  treasure!    My  fairest!    Do  you  know,  that 
was  really  a  queer  idea  of  yours.  .  .  . 

The  Voice. 
To  wish  to  come  here? 

Gastone. 
Yes,  in  this  circus  wagon.    I'm  a  bit  upset.  .  .  . 
I  swear  to  you.  ...  I  couldn't  believe  that  letter! 

The  Voice. 
Silly  boy!   Open  the  door! 

Gastone. 

[Running  to  the  door  at  the  right] 
It's  open.   Come  in.   [He  presses  her  hands  in  his.] 
Angelica!   [He  leads  her  in.] 


Gastone  the  Animal  Tamer    113 

Angelica. 
What  mystery!    [Looking  about  the  moonlit  room.] 
How  happy  I  am  that  I  came  here!    I  never  had 
such  a  rare  experience! 

Gastone. 

[Offended.] 
So  that  I  owe  my  good  fortune  to  the  whim  of  a 
baroness  who  wishes  to  experience.  .  .  . 

Angelica. 
No,  no!  You  big  baby!  [Gives  him  a  playful  slap.] 

Gastone. 
If  I  were  one  of  those  men  who  Hves  in  a  brick 
house.  .  .  . 

Angelica. 

No,  no,  no!   There!   You  would  be  just  as  hand- 
some. .  .  .  [About  to  kiss  him.] 

Gastone. 
You  mean  it?    [Ready  to  kiss  her.] 

[Through  the  doorway  may  be  caught  a  glimpse 
of  Fifty  whoj  at  the  propitious  moment, 
quickly  reaches  in  and  turns  on  the  electric 
light.   The  kiss  comes  to  nothing.] 

Angelica. 

[With  a  little  cry,  turns  around.] 

Gastone. 
[His  eyes  wide  open,  so  as  to  discover  the  reason.] 
The  Ught  went  on  of  its  own  accord. 


114    Gastone  the  Animal  Tamer 

Angelica. 
No,  no!  I  heard  the  switch  turn  very  plainly. 

Gastone. 
[Goes  to  the  door  and  investigates.] 
It  must  have  been  some  mischievous  urchin.  .  . 

Angelica. 
Close  the  door. 

Gastone. 

[As  he  closes  the  door,] 
They're  regular  devils! 

Angelica. 
It  was  so  sweet  and  romantic  in  that  mysterious 
light! 

Gastone. 
That's  easily  managed !  [Turns  off  the  light  and  then 
comes  to  her  with  open  arms.] 

Angelica. 
They  gave  me  such  a  fright.  .  .  .  [She  sits  down 
upon  the  cot.] 

Gastone. 
Fright?    [Caressing  her^  he  takes  out  her  hatpinj 
removes  her  hat,  and  sits  down  beside  her,  placing  his 
arm  about  her  waist.] 

Angelica. 
Terrible! 

Gastone. 
With  Gastone  the  tamer  at  your  side? 


Gastone  the  Animal  Tamer    115 

Angelica. 

[Holding  his  arm.] 
What  a  clumsy  bandage!  I  didn't  notice  it  before! 
.  .  .  And  what  an  odor  of  chemicals!   You've  hurt 
yourself  very  badly.  .  .  . 

Gastone. 

[Uncertainly.] 
Oh!    Nothing  much.  ...  A  mere  trifle.  .  .  . 

Angelica. 
But  how  did  it  happen?  ...  It  couldn't  have 
been  a  wild  beast  ...  for  instance? 

Gastone. 
Er  .  .  .  that's  it  exactly, —  a  wild  beast!  .  .  . 

Angelica. 
A  wild  beast!  ...  A  tiger?  Fifi?  That  terrible 
Fifi?  And  to  think  I  wasn't  there?  Ah!  Why 
didn't  I  come  to  this  evening's  performance? 
[Stroking  his  shoulders.]  And  these  are  sc  atches.  .  . . 
She  inflicted  them!  .  .  .  Ah!  .  .  .Tell  me.  .  .  . 
What  a  fine  sight  it  must  have  been!  What  a  won- 
derful success  you  must  have  scored!  Tell  me.  .  .  . 
Tell  me  all  about  it.  .  . 

Gastone. 
Er  .  .  .  well.  .  .  .  She  sprang  for  my  neck.  .  . 
with  the  most  wicked  intentions! 

Angelica. 
And  then?    [Eagerly.] 


ii6    Gastone  the  Animal  Tamer 

Gastone. 
And  then,  I  side-stepped  her  and  struck  with  the 
whip  across  the  eyes.  .  . 

Angelica. 
Dear  me!    And  then?    [With  growing  excitement] 

Gastone. 
I  left  the  cage! 

Angelica. 

[Disappointed.] 
Is  that  all? 

Gastone. 
What  else  was  I  to  do? 

Angelica. 
How  clumsy  you  fellows  are  at  telling  a  story! 

Gastone. 
Who? 

Angelica. 

Yes!  You're  all  alike!  The  same  as  the  aviators. 
You'd  imagine  they  were  telling  you  what  they 
had  for  breakfast! 

Gastone. 

Ah!   That's  so,  is  it? 

Angelica. 
Yes,  it  is  so!    And  the  ones  who  do  tell  a  story 
well  .  .  .  are   the  fellows  who've  never  made   a 
flight. 

Gastone. 
Do  you  know  many  of  them?  .  .  .  They  say.  .  .  . 


Gastone  the  Animal  Tamer    117 

Angelica. 
Oh,  dear!  Are  you  jealous?  Don't  worry,  for  in 
this  moment,  battered  and  torn  as  you  are,  con- 
queror of  Fifi,  I  wouldn't  swap  you  for  the  entire 
French  aerial  fleet!  [She  throws  her  arins  around  his 
neck.] 

[A  handful  of  pebbles  comes  rattling  in  through 
the  window  and  falls  with  a  loud  racket  into 
the  basin.    This  kiss,  too,  fails.] 

Angelica. 

[Shrieks  a^ain.] 
Gastone. 

[Gets  up,  furious.] 
By  the  living  God!   This  is  too  much! 

Angelica. 
I  can't  understand  it! 

Gastone. 

[Going  to  the  door.] 
Those     confounded     ragamufl^ns!      They're    as 
treacherous  as  cats! 

Angelica. 
But  those  ragamuffins  of  yours  are  experts  at 
choosing  the  right  moment! 

Gastone. 
Just  let  me  step  out  for  a  second  with  my  whip! 
Wait!   [Turns  on  the  light  and  leaves  by  the  right  doorj 
whip  in  hand.] 


ii8    Gastone  the  Animal  Tamer 

[The  snapping  of  the  whip  is  heard  together 
with  the  trainer^ s  heavy  footsteps  upon  the 
sand  path.  Angelica  peers  through  the 
window  when  all  of  a  sudden  Fiji  and  Nenne 
come  running  in  through  the  door  at  the 
right.] 

FiFi  AND  Nenne. 

[In  confusion.] 
Baroness!    Baroness  del  Branco!    We  saw  you 
come  in!  We've  come  to  ask  you  for  help! 

Angelica. 
[Turning  around,  at  first  frightened  and  then 
overwhelmed  with  confusion.] 
Eh?    Ah!    Help? 

FiFi  AND  Nenne. 
Yes,  help.    You  can  save  us!   You  must  save  us! 

Angelica. 
But.  .  .  .  Yes,  but  how.  .  .  . 

FiFI. 

Mother's    looking    for    us  .  .  .  over    land    and 
sea.  .  .  . 

Nenne. 

We  took  a  long  walk  all  by  ourselves  along  the 
beach. 

FiFI. 

You  know  we're  a  tiny  bit  wild. 


Gastone  the  Animal  Tamer    119 

Angelica. 
Oh!  .  .  .  You're  such  darUng  little  things! 

FiFI. 

Yes,  but  mother  doesn't  think  so.    And  we're 
afraid  to  go  back  home  alone! 

Nenne. 
You  accompany  us  back!  Be  a  good  dear! 

Angelica. 
[Composing  herself  with  an  effort.] 
Oh!   If  it's  only  that.  .  .  . 

FiFI. 

You'll  tell  her  that  we  were  all  out  walking 
together.  .  .  . 

Nenne. 
And  then  mother '11  have  nothing  to  scold  us  for! 
Be  a  good  dear! 

Angelica. 

[Anything  but  delighted.] 
Certainly!  With  pleasure!  .  .  .  Especially  as  my 
duty  here  is  accomplished.  .  .  . 

FlFI. 

Excuse  me  for  asking,  but.  .  .  .  What  duty? 

Angelica. 
[Now  complete  mistress  of  herself,  with  the 
most  tender  airy  pointing  to  the  seats  upon 


I20    Gas  tone  the  Animal  Tamer 

which  the  articles  from  the  medicine  chest 
have  been  left  standing.] 
Can't  you  see?    Nurse  duty! 

FiFI  AND  NeNNE. 

Oh! 

Angelica. 
Didn't  you  hear  the  news? 

FiFI. 

No! 

Angelica. 
Then  you  weren't  to  the  circus  this  evening? 

FiFI. 

No! 

Nenne. 
No! 

Angelica. 
The  animal-tamer  Gastone  had  a  very  narrow 
escape! 

FiFi  AND  Nenne. 
Really? 

Angelica. 
That  terrible  Fifi  leaped  at  his  neck  to  tear  him 
to  pieces.    A  cold  wave  of  terror  passed  over  the 
multitude.    I  had  to  shut  my  eyes.    Suddenly  we 
beheld  him,  bleeding  but  smiling.  .  .  . 

Fifi  and  Nenne. 
[Unable  to  restrain  their  laughter,] 
Oh,  dear!    Really? 


Gas  tone  the  Animal  Tamer    121 

Angelica. 
And  safe,  yes,  safe!    Oh,  what  a  moment  was 
that!    [Growing  excited.]   I'll  never  forget  it  if  I  live 
to  be  a  hundred!  They  carried  him  here  in  triumph! 
He  was  a  real  hero!   Oh! 

FiFI. 

And  the  wound? 

Angelica. 
His  wrist.    The  blood  spurted.  .  .  .  Ugh!    How 
that  blood  spurted  .  .  .  yet  he  absolutely  refused 
to  have  it  treated.  ...  At  last,  however,  we  per- 
suaded him.  .  .  . 

Gastone. 
[Outside,  snapping  his  whip  and  grumbling.] 
Where  could  those  wretches  have  hidden.  .  .  . 
[Enters  and  stands  as  if  transfixed.]  What! 

FiFI. 

This  gentleman,  if   I  am  not  mistaken,  is  the 
animal-trainer   Gastone! 

Nenne. 
Yes,  yes! 

Angelica. 
Indeed  it  is.    The  triumphant  tamer  who  gave  a 
lesson  to  his  rebellious  beast.  I  believe.  .  .  . 

FlFI. 

Permit  me  to  clasp  your  hand! 


122    Gastone  the  Animal  Tamer 

Nenne. 
Me,  too!    [Angelica  puts  on  her  hat  before  the 
mirror.] 

FiFI. 

We  have  just  learned  from  the  Baroness  del  Branco 
what  a  narrow  escape  you  had,  and  of  the  wound 
you  sustained  in  your  arm.  .  .  .  Allow  us  to  offer 
you  our  heartiest  congratulations! 

Nenne. 
Our  sincerest  felicitations! 

FiFI. 

No  one  could  have  treated  you  better  than  the 
Baroness! 

Angelica.. 

Oh!  I  am  happy  to  have  done  what  little  I 
could.  .  .  . 

FiFI. 

[Insiniuitingly.] 
You  would  have  liked  to  do  far  more! 

Gastone. 

[Amazed,] 
What,  what?  Are  you  leaving?  .  .  . 

FiFI. 

We  must  be  getting  home  directly.  And  the 
Baroness,  in  her  usual  gracious  manner,  is  accom- 
panying us. 

Gastone. 

Ah!  .  .  . 


Gastone  the  Animal  Tamer    123 

FiFI. 

[Standing  aside.] 
Lead  the  way,  Baroness! 

Nenne. 
[At  the  other  side  of  the  Baroness,] 
Lead  the  way! 

[Angelica,  as  she  leaves,  hows  to  Gastone,  who 
looks  daggers  at  her.] 

FiFI. 


You  first. 

Nenne. 


[To  Nenne.] 
[To  Gastone.] 


Till  we  meet  again! 

FiFI. 

Till  we  meet  again! 

[Gastone,  bursting  with  rage,  allows  them  to 
leave  without  returning  their  greetings.  As 
the  women's  voices  die  away,  he  strides  in 
from  the  threshold.  Red  in  the  face,  his 
fists  tightly  clenched,  he  begins  to  pace  to  and 
fro  in  his  room,  with  long  steps,  like  a  caged 
Hon.] 

FiFI. 

[Reappearing.] 
Will  you  ever  tell  me  again  that  I'm  not  a  woman? 
[With  the  roar  of  a  wild  beast  Gastone  dashes  to  the  door, 
—  Fifi   escapes.] 

Curtain. 


SABATINO  LOPEZ 

(1867-        ) 

Sabatino  Lopez  belongs  to  the  intellectual  group 
of  modern  Italian  dramatists;  born  at  Leghorn  in 
the  same  year  as  Pirandello  he  is,  like  the  noted 
Sicilian,  a  scholarly  spirit  who  has  been  engaged  as 
teacher,  critic  and  writer  of  lively  fiction;  for  a  time 
he  succeeded  the  widely  known  dramatist  Marco 
Praga  as  president  of  the  Authors'  Society  of  Milan 
and  for  ten  years  served  as  dramatic  critic  upon  the 
Genoese  monthly,  II  Secolo  XIX, 

Unlike  so  many  of  his  confreres  he  is  of  a  dis- 
tinctly cosmopolitan  outlook  in  his  numerous  plays; 
his  work  has  been  Hkened,  for  its  various  qualities, 
to  the  dramas  of  Dumas,  of  Hervieu,  and  of  his 
countrymen  Butti  and  Giacosa,  yet  comparison  with 
the  last-named  playwright  (which  has  gained  cur- 
rency through  the  few  inadequate  lines  accorded 
Lopez  in  Tonelli's  "L'Evoluzione  del  teatro  con- 
temporaneo  in  Italia")  tends  to  obscure  Lopez's 
personal  traits.  A  fuller  and  more  accurate  view  is 
that  presented  by  Guido  Ruberti  in  his  **I1  teatro 
contemporaneo  in  Europa''  —  a  voluminous  work 
which  is  more  trustworthy  for  its  long  chapters  upon 
the  French  and  the  Italian  drama  of  recent  days 
than  for  its  uneven  considerations  of  the  play  in 
other  nations  of  Europe. 


126  Sabatino  Lopez 

Lopez  "represents  among  us,"  writes  Ruberti, 
"that  theatre  which  no  longer  is  serious  and  which 
is  not  yet  comic.  .  .  .  The  most  conspicuous  char- 
acteristic of  his  work  is,  indeed,  that  frank  wit  of  the 
Tuscan  spirit  which  in  every  age  has  given  to  art  its 
most  exquisite  and  bizarre  minds  —  that  inde- 
finable humor  which  was  upon  the  Hps  of  the  Floren- 
tine rogue  and  the  Pisan  mercer,  as  sharp  as  a  rapier- 
thrust  and  as  pungent  as  truth.''  Like  so  much 
modern  laughter  in  all  the  tongues,  that  of  Lopez  has 
a  source  of  tears;  he  is  not  intent  upon  moralizing, 
preaching  or  philosophizing,  although  his  conception 
of  Hfe  recognizes  the  "dramatic  contrast  between 
the  frailty  of  the  flesh  —  a  prey  to  passion  that  knows 
neither  check  nor  law  —  and  the  supreme  effort  of 
the  spirit,  conscious  of  its  lofty  moral  duties." 
Particularly  applicable  to  the  play  by  which  he  is 
here  represented  is  the  latter  citation;  Maria's 
punishment  does  not  arise  so  much  from  any  arbi- 
trary imposition  of  a  social  prejudice  as  from  her  own 
momentary  violation  of  a  moral  law  in  which  she 
herself  implicitly  believes. 

At  bottom  Lopez  is  a  skeptic  and  an  ironist; 
though  he  began  as  an  avowed  follower  of  the  bitter 
truth  —  the  theory  of  impassability  connected  with 
the  "theatre  cruel"  of  which  he  was  early  a  disciple 
—  he  became  in  the  course  of  his  writing  a  lover  of 
the  paradox  which  reveals  that  truth.  His  courte- 
sans are  often  women  fundamentally  superior  to 
their  more  "moral"  sisters  (Ninetta);  true  love  is 
often  forced  to  forego  wedlock  {II  terzo  marito); 


Sabatino  Lopez  127 

unselfish  devotion  is  victimized  by  its  own  goodness 
{La  nostra  pelle);  masculine  ugliness  finds  it  possible, 
by  making  a  virtue  of  necessity  and  boldly  creating 
an  advantage  out  of  a  defect,  to  win  more  attention 
from  the  women  than  do  the  handsome  fops  (II 
hrutto  e  le  belle) .  The  play  just  named,  it  is  interesting 
to  note,  has  recently  been  adapted  for  performance 
in  English,  with  Leo  Dietrichstein  in  the  role  of  the 
ugly  banker  who  has  in  him  a  touch  of  the  Cyrano. 
There  is  much,  then,  of  the  Gallic  in  Lopez;  in 
La  morale  che  corre  Ruberti  discovers  'Hhe  Italian 
type  of  the  comedie  rosse,  of  the  audacious  paradoxes 
dear  to  Ancey  and  to  Wolff,  filtered  through  an 
Italian  mind  that  is  all  light  and  sentiment."  If 
Lopez  is  not  a  dramatist  of  the  first  order  he  is  easily 
one  of  the  secondary  personages  who  must  be 
studied  for  a  complete  knowledge  of  the  Italian 
theatre  of  today. 


PERSONS 
Maria  Lodoli  Cecchino 

SiGNORA  AlBINI  LiSA 

Lieutenant  Graziani  Anna 

A  Little  Boy  of  Two  Years 


THE  SPARROW 

Scene:  A  room  on  the  ground  floor  of  a  villetta  in 
Varesotto.  It  is  four  o'clock  of  an  afternoon  in  autumn, 
Signora  Alhini  is  knitting  for  the  soldiers.  Anna  is 
reading.  Lisa  is  running  her  fingers  lightly  over  the 
keyboard  of  the  piano,  now  and  then  striking  a  heavier 
chord. 

Signora  Albini. 

[Laying  her  work  aside.] 
Well,  that's  enough  for  the  present.   [To  Anna, 
who  has  shut  her  hook.]  Have  you  finished  your  book 
already? 

Anna. 
No,  not  finished.  But  I  don't  feel  like  reading  any 
more. 

Signora  Albini. 
Do  you  like  it,  though? 

Anna. 
I  really  couldn't  say.   I  read  and  read,  and  don't 
understand  a  word  of  what  I'm  reading.  My  mind's 
elsewhere.   And  your  knitting? 

Signora  Albini. 
I'll  get  back  to  it  this  evening.    Have  you  got 
everything  ready  in  there? 

129 


I30  The  Sparrow 

Anna, 
All  ready. 

SiGNORA  AlBINI. 

I  mean,  shall  we  receive  him  there  or  here?  Lisa, 
please.  Stop  that  playing  for  a  moment.  I  can't 
hear.  .  .  .  Very  well,  we'll  manage  things.  It  all 
depends  on  how  much  haste  we'll  have  to  make. 

*  •«      [Silence.] 

Anna. 
What's  the  time? 

Lisa. 

Time  enough.  Time  enough.  Don't  you  fear. 
He'll  come.  With  military  punctuality. 

Anna. 

What's  that  got  to  do  with  it?  Punctuality!  He 

didn't  specify.  He  simply  wrote  that  he'd  be  here  in 

the  afternoon.  The  military  punctuality  is  your  own 

contribution.  I  was  simply  asking  what  time  it  was. 

Lisa. 

[With  a  faint  smile.] 
You  either  don't  remember  or  aren't  at  all  aware  of 
it,  but  it's  the  third  time  you've  asked  that  question 
within  twenty  minutes.  And  you've  also  wanted  to 
read  the  letter  over  again,  to  make  sure  that  it 
really  meant  today,  and  that  you  hadn't  mistaken 
the  date.  Yes,  indeed.  It's  today.  Won't  you  tell 
me  why  you're  so  impatient,  and  nervous? 

SiGNORA  AlBINI. 

First  explain  why  you  are. 


The  Sparrow  131 

Lisa. 
Why  I  am? 

SiGNORA  AlBINI. 

Yes.   You  want  to  appear  calm,  but  you're  not. 

Anna. 
Good  for  mother! 

Lisa. 
I,  impatient  and  nervous?  When,  indeed? 

SiGNORA  AlBINI. 

Ordinarily,  no.  Today,  yes.  You're  in  suspense. 
Just  as  much  on  edge  as  we.  You're  waiting,  and 
whoever  waits  is  never  absolutely  calm.  The  best 
you  can  manage  is  to  resign  yourself  to  a  delay;  but 
if  he  were  not  to  show  up,  you'd  suffer  a  terrible 
disappointment. 

Lisa. 

Because  he's  sent  word  that  he's  coming. 

SiGNORA  AlBINI. 

Naturally.  If  you  didn't  know  that  he  was  sup- 
posed to  come  .  .  .  !  Every  arrival  of  a  new  person 
is  a  proper  reason  for  curiosity.  This  time  it's  a 
person  that's  almost  unknown  to  us,  yet  dear  to  us 
just  the  same. 

Anna. 

And  add  that  he's  young. 

SiGNORA  AlBINI. 

Yes,  but  something  more.  Add  rather  that  we 
have  trembled  for  him.  Ours  isn't  a  vain,  gossiping 


132  The  Sparrow 

curiosity.  It's  a  quivering  curiosity.  We  have  seen 
him  only  in  his  bandages;  we  know  his  face  but  little, 
and  we  have  never  heard  him  speak,  so  that  all  we 
have  to  remember  him  by  is  a  timid  snoile. 

Lisa. 

That's  the  very  reason  why  I  can't  understand  the 
fuss  you're  making.  I  admit  I'd  be  glad  to  have  a 
look  at  him.   But  I'm  not  a-tremble  like  you. 

SiGNORA  AlBINI. 

Now  don't  play  the  brave,  strong  woman,  for  you 
deceive  yourself.  It's  merely  that  your  suspense 
shows  itself  differently  than  ours.  Or  rather:  it  was 
Anna  who  asked,  ''What's  the  time?"  If  she  hadn't 
asked  it,  you  would  probably  have  done  so.  And 
when  you  resent  her  asking  and  her  anxiety,  it's 
merely  another  way  of  trying  to  hide  your  own.  But 
you  only  reveal  it  the  more. 

Lisa. 
Why,  mother,  how  subtle  you  are! 

Anna. 
Mother?  Always. 

SiGNORA  AlBINI. 

Hush,  hush  a  moment.  A  carriage  has  stopped  at 
the  door.   Perhaps  it's  he. 

Lisa. 

Certainly.  Who  else  can  it  be?  I'll  take  a  look. 
iBhe  goes  to  the  window.]  No.  It's  a  lady.  She's 
looking  about,  as  if  to  make  inquiries.  .  .  . 


The  Sparrow  133 

Anna. 

[Almost  in  dismay.] 
You'll  see.  He  isn't  coming,  and  he  has  sent  word 
to  let  us  know. 

Lisa. 

[Looking  out] 
She's  talking  with  Cecchino.  .  .  .  She's  at  the 
gate.  .  .  .  She  asked  for  us,  all  right.    There,  she's 
ringing. 

[Exit] 

SiGNORA  AlBINI. 

It  really  looks  as  if  the  Heutenant  at  the  last 
moment  found  it  impossible  to  come.  Or  perhaps 
he's  been  called  back  to  service  ahead  of  time  and  he's 
sending  us  an  explanation. 

Anna. 
Too  bad!    And  I  wonder  what's  keeping    that 
woman?   I'm  going  to  see. 

[She  is  about  to  leave  when  Cecchino  appears  on 
the  threshold,] 

Cecchino. 
There's  a  lady  here.  She  apologizes  for  not  having 
a  card.   She  gave  me  her  name,  but  in  a  hurry,  and 
I  couldn't  catch  it. 

Signora  Albini. 
You  should  have  asked  her  again. 


134  The  Sparrow 

Cecchino. 
She  says  that  you  don't  know  her.    So  that  her 
name  would  have  been  of  no  use  anyway. 

SiGNORA  AlBINI. 

But  just  what  does  she  want  of  us? 

Cecchino. 
She  said:    "The  madame  .  .  .  the  young  ladies. 
.  .  .  *'   Who  knows?  She  talks  between  her  teeth. 

Lisa. 
Perhaps  she's  a  relative  of  his?    Or  maybe  his 
wife? 

Anna. 

He  hasn't  a  wife.    [To  Cecchino.]   Is  she  a  young 
woman? 

Cecchino. 
Yes,  young.  She's  somewhat  worn,  but  she  seems 
young. 

Signora  Albini. 
Show  her  in.   [Exit  Cecchino.]  We'll  see.   [To  Lisa, 
who  is  closing  the  piano.]  Tell  the  truth,  now.  Even 
you  are  anxious.  You  don't  even  try  to  hide  it. 

Maria  L6doli. 
[A  refined  woman,  dressed  simply  in  black, 
enters  and  pauses  at  the  door,  anxiously.] 
I  beg  pardon.   Is  Lieutenant  Graziani  in? 

Signora  Albini. 
We're  expecting  him.  He  hasn't  come  yet. 


The  Sparrow  135 

Maria. 
[Sighing  deeply,  her  eyes  sparkling.] 
Ah,  not  yet?  I  feared  that  he  might  already  have 
left.   I'm  sorry,  I  have  no  note  of  introduction,  nor 
even  a  visiting  card.  But  I  had  such  urgent  need  of 
seeing  the  Ueutenant!   I  come  .  .  .  from  Piemonte. 
I  left  at  daybreak.  This  morning  I  went  to  his  house 
in  Milan  and  spoke  with  his  mother.   She  told  me 
that  he  had  left  yesterday  and  that  he  would  prob- 
ably not  be  back  today.   And  this  evening  I  must 
return.   I  must.   His  mother  told  me  that  he  would 
perhaps  be  here  this  afternoon,  and  gave  me  your 
direction.   I  took  the  train  and  had  the  presumption. 
.  .  .  Please   forgive   me.  ...  I   should   hate    to 
intrude. 

SiGNORA  AlBINI. 

Don't  mention  it.   Please  come  in. 

Maria. 

[Remaining  hy  the  door.] 
I  don't  even  know  Lieutenant  Graziani.  [Her 
hearers  start  with  surprise.]  I  am  a  cousin  of  Ms 
unfortunate  flying  companion  —  of  the  officer  who 
fell  with  him  and  was  killed.  [The  women  nod  their 
heads  sadly.  ]  You  know  all  about  it. 

SiGNORA  AlBINI. 

Yes,  unhappily,  we  know.    Come  in,  do.    Don't 
stand  there  at  the  door  like  a  beggar. 


136  The  Sparrow 

Maria. 


Thanks. 


[She  does  not  move,  however.] 


SiGNORA   AlBINI. 

Won't  you  sit  down  and  rest  yourself? 

Maria. 

[Takes  a  seat  near  the  door.] 

SiGNORA  AlBINI. 

Come  nearer. 

Maria. 
Just  let  me  remain  here.   I'll  explain  later. 

SiGNORA  AlBINI. 

Your  name,  madame?   So  that  I  may  introduce 
you  to  the  lieutenant  when  he  arrives. 

Maria. 
Maria  Lodoli.  The  departed  was  a  cousin  to  my 
husband.  And  I've  come  to  find  out  certain  things 
from  the  lieutenant  for  him.  We  only  learned  of  the 
accident  very  late,  ever  so  late.  The  papers  said 
nothing.  And  we'd  like  to  have  some  details.  He  had 
no  closer  relatives  [hesitating]  I  believe.  [Silence,] 
Lieutenant  Graziani's  mother  told  me  that  her  son 
is  coming  to  thank  you  for  the  care  you  gave  him 
when  he  was  brought  here  wounded.  Could  you 
perhaps  tell  me  anything  about  the  other  one  who 
died? 


The  Sparrow  137 

SiGNORA  AlBINI. 

Nothing.  Almost  nothing.  [Turning  to  Lisa  and 
Anna.]  Nor  you,  either,  isn^t  that  so?  The  aero- 
plane fell  within  a  few  hundred  metres  of  this 
place.  ... 

Maria. 

I  saw.  The  driver  pointed  the  spot  out  to  me  just 
now,  and  the  tree  that  was  shattered  in  the  fall. 

SiGNORA  AlBINI. 

Nothing  could  be  done  for  your  poor  cousin.  He 
was  already  dead  when  picked  up,  so  that  they  took 
him  away  and  we  didn't  even  get  a  look  at  him. 
Lieutenant  Graziani  was  put  up  at  our  house  because 
nobody  thought  it  wise  to  move  him  about  in  his 
condition.  The  military  physicians  kept  him  here  for 
a  few  days  until  they  thought  him  strong  enough  to 
be  transported  to  the  hospital.  We  women  took  care 
of  him.  Our  men  —  my  son  and  my  son-in-law  —  are 
at  the  front. 

Maria. 

And  Lieutenant  Graziani  has  never  spoken  to  you 
about  his  companion?   Never  asked  after  him? 

SiGNORA  AlBINI. 

No,  madame.  While  he  was  with  us  he  was  unable 
to  talk.  He  certainly  didn't  know  that  his  friend  had 
died  immediately.  We  told  him  nothing,  naturally. 
It  would  only  have  made  him  worse.  He  must  have 
learned  of  it  later,  at  the  hospital. 


138  The  Sparrow 

Maria. 
Thanks.  I  was  ...  his  only  relative.  My  hus- 
band and  I,  his  only  relations.  [Silence.]  If  I  were 
sure  that  the  lieutenant  was  delayed,  say,  for  an 
hour  .  .  .  I'd  go  out  and  come  back  later.  So  as  not 
to  appear  intrusive,  and  not  be  in  the  way.  I  don't 
want  to  sadden  the  first  moments  of  his  happy 
reunion  with  you.  I'll  wait  in  another  room,  if 
you'U  be  so  kind.  That's  why  I  remained  at  the 
door. 

SiGNORA  AlBINI. 

I  understand.  But  you  needn't  leave.  I  think  we 
can  introduce  you  quite  simply.  Even  without 
mentioning  your  name.  "A  friend  of  ours  who 
happens  to  be  visiting  us. "  Then,  when  the  proper 
moment  comes,  we  can  withdraw. 

[Liisa  and  Anna  nod  approval,] 

Maria. 

[Weakly.] 
It's  not  necessary. 

SiGNORA  AlBINI. 

But  it's  better.  You  could  then  ask  him,  and  he 
tell  you,  things  that  aren't  for  strangers'  ears. 

Maria. 

[Hesitant] 
I  don't  know  ...  I  don't  believe  so. 


The  Sparrow  139 

SiGNORA  AlBINI. 

Very  well.  We'll  see  later.  Don't  let  it  trouble 
you.  [Introducing  the  women.]  My  daughter,  my 
daughter-in-law. 

[The  women  nod  acknowledgment.] 

Maria. 
When  did  the  accident  happen? 

Anna. 
The  eighth  of  August. 

Maria. 
Two  months  ago.  I  was  at  Alassio  with  my  hus- 
band the  whole  month  of  September.  I  didn't  know 
a  thing!  It  was  a  friend  of  mine  that  told  me  after- 
wards. "Did  you  hear  about  Lodoli?"  [Her  voice 
trembles.  Suddenly  she  becomes  silent.  To  Anna  and 
Lisa.]   You  haven't  any  children? 

Anna. 
No.  Not  yet.  .  .  . 

Maria. 
Oh,  well,  you  are  so  young.  You  have  time. 

Lisa. 
And  you,  madame? 

Maria. 
Yes. 

Lisa. 
Already  grown  up? 


I40  The  Sparrow 

Maria. 


Five  years  old. 
Just  one? 


Lisa. 


Maria. 
[Looks  at  her  without  answering,    A  certain 
sound  has  made  her  cock  her  ear.    It  is  an 
automobile^  which  comes  to  a  stop,] 

Anna. 
This  time  it's  he. 

Lisa. 
[Runs  to  the  window  and  looks  out.] 
Yes,  he's  here.  He  hasn't  stepped  out  yet,  but 
there's  no  doubt  about  it,  for  there's  a  soldier  on  the 
driver's  seat.  That's  funny!  The  soldier  has  stepped 
down;  the  heutenant  has  come  out;  it  must  be  he, 
but  he's  not  in  uniform.  Now  the  soldier's  getting 
back  into  the  auto  and  closing  it. 

SiGNORA  AlBINI. 

Poor  fellow.   He  must  be  cold. 

Lisa. 
If  he'd  like  to  warm  up  with  a  punch  or  some 
drink  .  .  .  I'll  send  word  to  him  through  Cecchino. 

Anna. 
We'll  ask  the  lieutenant. 


The  Sparrow  141 

Maria. 

[Resolutely.] 
I'm  going.   You  can  call  me  when  you  think  best. 
I  feel  that  I  can't  face  him  now.    I  can't. 

SiGNORA   AlBINI. 

As  you  see  fit,  madame.  Go  this  way.  [Maria 
leaves  by  the  left;  Signora  Alhini  accompanies  her,  hut 
returns  at  once,]  What  a  strange  woman! 

Lisa. 

She's  ill.  You  can  see  it  at  a  glance,  and  hear  it  in 
her  voice. 

Lieutenant  Graziani. 
[At  the  rear  door,  standing  at  attention.] 
Lieutenant  Graziani. 

The  Women. 
[Gather   around  him,   greeting  him  festively, 
taking  his  cay.] 
Good  day!   Welcome!    Congratulations!   So  glad 
to  see  you.  .  .  .  Are  you  really  all  better? 

Graziani. 

[To  Signora  Alhini.] 
You  are  the  mother,  I  believe? 

[Kisses  her  hand.] 

Signora  Albini. 

[Smiling.] 

That's  only  too  evident.    I'm  the  mother  and  the 

mother-in-law.     [Introducing.]     My   daughter,   my 


142  The  Sparrow 

daughter-in-law.  Welcome  indeed.  My  son  and  my 
son-in-law  both  wrote  recently:  they  knew  that 
sooner  or  later  you'd  come  to  see  us  and  that  it  would 
probably  be  soon.  So  they,  too,  though  they  don't 
know  you,  send  you  their  best  regards  and  con- 
gratulate you  from  afar.  Comradely  greetings,  for 
they're  soldiers,  too.  [With  a  soft  sigh.  ]  Who  isn't  a 
soldier  in  these  days? 

Graziani. 
I've  come  to  give  you  the  sincere  and  heartfelt 
thanks  which  I  couldn't  speak  that  time,  but  it's  none 
the  less  deep  and  sincere  for  the  delay.  Tell  the 
truth.  Would  you  have  recognized  me?  If  you  had 
come  across  me  on  the  street,  would  you  have  said: 
"That's  our  wounded  friend?" 

SiGNORA  AlBINI. 

[While  the  other  women  smilingly  shake  their 
heads.] 
No,  indeed!   If  we  hadn't  met  you  in  this  house, 
we'd  never  have  dreamed  it  was  you.    And  you, 
heutenant  —  do  you  recognize  us? 

Graziani. 
[Looking  at  the  three  women ^  one  after  the  other.] 
To  tell  the  truth,  no.   At  the  risk  of  appearing  an 
ungrateful  booby,  I  must  confess  that  I  don't  recog- 
nize you.  • 

SiGNORA   AlBINI. 

And  how  could  you?   We,  at  least,  had  our  eyes 
open,  while  you.  .  .  . 


The  Sparrow  143 

Lisa. 
Our  eyes  open  even  at  night,  when  we  watched 
over  you. 

SiGNORA  AlBINI. 

But  your  features  could  hardly  be  made  out.  At 
first  all  blood,  and  then  all  bandages.  .  .  . 

Anna. 
How  frightful,  lieutenant!    Lisa,  here,  at  least, 
had  taken  a  course  as  a  Red  Cross  nurse  and  had 
seen  plenty  of  sick,  wounded  and  dying.  .  .  .  But 
I.  .  .  . 

SiGNORA  AlBINI. 

Make  yourself  comfortable,  lieutenant.  Sit  down 
and  let's  have  a  good  look  at  you. 

Graziani. 
[Sits  down,  smiling,  and  turns  toward  the  light.] 
So? 

SiGNORA  AlBINI. 

Fine.  That's  the  way.  Excellent,  excellent. 
Perfect  appearance,  not  a  trace  of  a  scar.  You  were 
certainly  lucky.  And  it  would  have  been  a  real  sin, 
for  .  .  .  shall  I  tell  you?  I'm  an  old  woman  and  I 
may  say  it  without  being  suspected  of  ulterior 
motives:  you're  a  handsome  young  man. 

Lisa. 

[Smiling.] 
Oh,  Oh!  Motneri 


144  The  Sparrow 

Anna. 
Oh,  I  say,  mother!   Such  a  declaration!  .  .  . 

SiGNORA  AlBINI. 

What's  wrong?  I  tell  him  what  I'd  be  glad  to  hear 
said  of  my  own  son.  .  .  .  And  of  my  son-in-law. 
[Smiling.]  Yes,  indeed.  You  are  really  a  handsome 
young  man.  And  when  they  carried  you  in  here,  it 
didn't  seem.  .  .  .  Nor  even  afterwards:  at  first  all 
blood  and  earth,  then  pale,  Hvid,  Hke  death  itself. 
And  your  mother?  Tell  us  all  about  your  mother. 
Happy,  eh? 

Graziani. 

In  the  seventh  heaven.  That  is,  up  to  yesterday. 
Since  yesterday,  not  quite  so  happy. 

Signora  Albini. 
Oh! 

Graziani. 
Because  she  thinks  that  I'm  going  back  to  flying. 

Signora  Albini. 
When? 

Graziani. 
Tomorrow,  or  the  day  after. 

Anna. 
Again?  And  so  soon,  after  what  happened  to  you? 
You're  a  hero. 


The  Sparrow  i4S 

Graziani. 

[Simply.] 

No,  I^m  an  aviator.  You  fall  and  you  pick  your- 
self up,  or  somebody  else  picks  you  up.  You  get 
wounded,  you  cure  yourself,  or  somebody  else  cures 
you.  [Looking  at  his  hostesses.]  And  when  you  are  in 
luck,  it's  somebody  else.  Then  you  get  back  on  the 
job. 

Lisa. 

Say  rather,  back  to  your  duty. 

SiGNORA  AlBINI. 

Look  about  you.  Don't  you  remember  anything? 
Don't  you  recall  the  place?  You  were  carried  in 
here,  into  this  very  room.  And  I  didn't  want  to  have 
you  carried  up  the  stairs,  for  they  might  drop  you, 
and  you  in  such  a  grave  condition.  For  you  were 
pretty  badly  off,  do  you  know?  And  we  women  took 
upon  ourselves  a  sort  of  duty,  as  if  we  had  hurled 
defiance  into  the  face  of  destiny :  "  He  must  be  saved. 
We  want  him  to  be  saved.  Our  house  must  prove 
lucky  for  him. "  Look ;  you  were  there,  stretched  out, 
first  upon  a  mattress,  then  upon  a  cot  that  we  had 
brought  down.  Near  the  piano.  This  is  the  airiest 
room  in  the  house.   Don't  you  remember  a  thing? 

Graziani. 

Not  a  thing.   Or  rather  .  .  .  almost  nothing.   Of 

the  first  hours,  certainly  nothing.   Then,  a  glimmer 

...  I  can't  just  explain  it  —  Uke  the  shadow  of  a 

dream.    And  then  later,  a  vague  recollection,  as  of 


146  The  Sparrow 

the  flutter  of  a  wing;  a  hand  ,  .  ,  [to  Signora 
Albini]  assuredly  yours,  which  caressed  my  cheek 
—  whatever  of  it  there  was  uncovered  by  bandages. 
And  a  sweet  feminine  voice  ^ — certainly  yours  — 
that  said  to  me:  ''Sleep,  my  boy,  sleep." 

Signora  Albini. 

[Moved.] 
I  can't  recall.   It  may  be  as  you  say.   Won't  you 
have   something,   lieutenant?     Something   cold   or 
warm? 

Graziani. 
Thank  you  —  nothing. 

Anna. 

Really?  Don't  stand  on  ceremony.  Why  wonH 
you  drink  something?  We'll  drink,  too,  to  yoiM" 
health. 

[Laughs.] 
Graziani. 

Thank  you,  not  now.  My  mother  wished  to  come 
in  person  to  thank  you.  She  will  come  some  other 
day  and  let  you  know  how  grateful  she  is  for  the  care 
you  showed  me  and  all  the  trouble  you  gave  your- 
selves. .  .  .  Today  I  kept  her  from  doing  so,  that 
she  might  be  spared  the  emotional  strain;  and  also 
because  I  did  not  come  here  directly  from  her.  I  first 
had  to  make  a  long  trip  by  automobile.  I'm  sorry, 
too,  that  I  can't  remain  in  your  company  as  long  as 
I  should  like,  for  there's  a  certain  little  person  waiting 
for  me. 


The  Sparrow  147 

Lisa. 
Ah,  ah!   Congratulations! 

Anna. 
Excellent! 

SiGNORA  AlBINI. 

Hurrah  for  the  lieutenant! 

Graziani. 

[Now  understanding  them.] 

No,  no.    What  did  you  think?    A  sweetheart? 

Not  at  all.  Not  at  all.  There  are  other  things  to  do 

these  days.    It's  another  kind  of  little  person:  a 

fledgling  sparrow. 

Anna. 
A  sparrow? 

Graziani. 

[After  a  moment's  hesitation.] 
Yes,  that's  just  what.  You'll  remember  that  when 
I  had  that  fall  in  the  test  flight  I  wasn't  alone.  It 
was  my  luck  that  I  wasn't  hurt  and  am  now  on  my 
feet,  ready  to  begin  again.  The  other  fellow  [gravely] 
Lieutenant  Lodoli,  met  instant  death. 

Lisa. 

Yes,   we    remember.  And   there    in   the   other 
room.  .  .  . 

SiGNORA  AlBINI. 


Wait,  Lisa.   Don't  interrupt. 


[To  Lisa.] 


148  The  Sparrow 

Anna. 
As   you   were   saying,    Lieutenant.     About  the 
unfortunate  Lieutenant  Lodbli. 

Graziani. 
Yes,  a  brave  fellow,  a  serious,  cultured  chap.  Of 
modest  family,  and  had  been  left  an  orphan  since 
boyhood  —  all  these  things  I  learned  later.  He  had 
gone  to  school  at  Modena,  Uved  decently  and  with 
dignity,  on  his  wages.  He  was  about  to  be  promoted 
to  a  captaincy  when  he  died.  He  had  been  a  pilot 
for  several  months  —  a  calm,  certain  pilot.  One  in  a 
hundred  fall  through  their  own  imprudence,  the 
others  fall  .  .  .  because  it's  their  fate.  I  wasn't  an 
old  friend  of  LodoH.  I  wasn't  even  in  his  regiment 
or  his  department.  I  belong  to  the  Lanciers.  I  had 
been  flying  only  a  few  days.  I  didn't  know  him  very 
well  —  that's  why  I  knew  almost  nothing  about  him. 
And  then  again  he  was  so  reserved,  so  silent.  The 
day  before  the  accident  happened  we  had  spent  a 
pretty  bad  moment  at  a  high  altitude  because  of  an 
injury  to  the  motor.  When  we  landed  I  said:  "Do 
you  realize  that  we  just  had  a  narrow  escape?"  And 
he  answered :  "  Yes.  And  I  felt  bad  on  account  of  the 
little  sparrow."  Nothing  more.  He  said  not  a  word 
more,  nor  did  I  ask  him  anything  else.  The  little 
sparrow?  It  occurred  to  me  an  hour  later,  but  then 
.  . .  The  next  day  —  well,  you  know  what  hap- 
pened. .  .  .  When  I  was  already  convalescing  they 
showed  me  the  wallet  that  they  had  found  in  his 
jacket;  naturally  it  hadn't  yet  been  touched.    No 


The  Sparrow  149 

will,  no  money  to  speak  of  —  just  a  few  tens  and 
some  notes  of  little  importance.  But  in  the  inner- 
most pocket  there  was  a  photograph  of  a  two-year- 
old  child;  on  the  back  of  the  photograph,  the  name, 
Giulio  Lodoli,  the  place  and  date  of  birth  and  exact 
directions  for  finding  him:  ''With  the  Piombesi 
family,  Cascina  Grossa,  Gallarate." 

Anna. 

[In  a  low  voice.] 
The  little  sparrow. 

Graziani. 
I  thought  of  the  Httle  fellow,  then  I  wrote.  I  went 
to  Gallarate  at  once,  and  we  returned  this  morning. 
The  Piombesis  are  fine  folk,  but  poor  country  people. 
They  are  fond  of  the  little  one,  but  even  more  fond 
of  the  Httle  income  that  he  meant  to  them.  For 
every  month,  punctually,  Lieutenant  Lodoli  would 
send  to  Maddalena  Piombesi  sixty  lire  of  his  pay, 
to  cover  the  nurse's  wages  and  the  maintenance  of 
the  child.  And  whenever  he  could,  he  took  a  run 
out  to  see  his  child.  Poor  little  thing!  I've  seen  him; 
he's  a  husky  little  dear.  Nobody's  yet  come  to  hunt 
him  out;  times  are  hard.   So  I  took  him. 

SiGNORA  AlBINI. 

You  took  him? 

Graziani. 
For  my  mother  more  than  for  myself.   It's  a  kind 
deed  and  at  the  same  time  it  will  gladden  my  old 


ISO  The  Sparrow 

mother's  heart.  I'm  a  bachelor,  and  an  only  son;  my 
mother's  alone;  the  child  will  keep  her  company. 

SiGNORA  AlBINI. 

And  if  it's  called  for? 

Graziani. 
The  Piombesis  know  who  I  am  and  where  I 
belong.  If  anybody  shows  up  with  a  right  to  the 
child,  we'll  talk  the  matter  over  and  see.  In  the 
meantime  it's  with  me.  It's  outside,  in  the  auto- 
mobile. 

Lisa. 
Outside?  With  whom? 

Graziani. 
My  attendant  is  taking  good  care  of  him. 

SiGNORA  AlBINI. 

But  the  mother?  What  will  the  mother  say? 

Graziani. 
What  mother?    Mine?    She'll  say,  ''Welcome." 
And  she'll  keep  him. 

SiGNORA  AlBINI. 

Have  you  spoken  to  her  about  it?  Does  she  know 
that  you're  not  coming  back  alone? 

Graziani. 
No.    It's  a  surprise.    Just  a  Httle  sparrow  found 
shivering  in  the  grass,  exposed  to  the  weather,  and 
brought  home  to  warmth,  food  and  care. 


The  Sparrow  151 

Lisa. 
But  the  mother?  The  Httle  one's  mother?  Didn't 
you  ask  the  Piombesi  family  whether  the  mother 
had  ever  come  to  see  the  child?  .  .  .  Who  she  was? 

Graziani. 
Lieutenant  LodoH  was  a  bachelor.    As  for  near 
relatives  —  none !   There  aren't  any  other  Lddolis  at 
Ivrea.    The  Lodolis  come  from  Ivrea. 

Lisa. 
But  the  little  fellow  had  a  mother. 

[Maria  Lodoli  appears.  Signora  Alhini 
approaches  so  as  to  bring  her  forward.  Maria 
Lodoli  signals  her  not  to  speak  nor  to  inter- 
rupt the  lieutenantj  who  goes  on  with  his 
story.] 

Graziani. 
Who  the  mother  is?  Perhaps  we  ought  to  ask 
ourselves  who  was  the  mother.  She  may  be  dead. 
L6doli  never  said  a  word  about  her  to  any  of  his 
comrades.  The  Piombesi  family  knows  nothing  of 
her  —  never  saw  her.  The  child  was  brought  to 
them  by  Lieutenant  Lodoli,  who  was  accompanied 
by  a  young  lady  from  Varese.  Should  I  hunt  for  this 
woman  at  Varese?  Would  I  be  able  to  find  her? 
And  would  she,  could  she,  talk?  And  —  perhaps  — 
it's  better  not  to  know.  We  officers  wander  about 
the  world,  here  today,  there  tomorrow  —  we  visit  so 
many  cities,  in  garrison  and  in  detachment!  It  can't 
be  a  woman  who  is  free  to  act,  for  she  would  have 


152  The  Sparrow 

taken  the  child,  or  at  least  have  looked  it  up.  It 
can  hardly  be  a  woman  of  the  upper  classes.  No. 
It's  probably  some  waitress  or  a  teacher,  to  whom 
the  child  would  prove  a  disaster  in  the  first  place  and 
a  hindrance  later  on.  More  hkely  the  latter,  for 
Lieutenant  Lodoli,  if  only  for  the  child's  sake,  would 
have  made  reparation  by  marrjdng  the  mother.  The 
mother's  probably  some  low,  shameless  person. 
Let's  do  nothing  about  it;  let's  make  no  search,  for 
it  isn't  worth  while.  I'll  take  the  child  without  any 
hesitation.  And  when  he  grows  up:  "Giulio  Lodoli, 
son  of  an  officer  in  the  aviation  corps  who  died  in 
service."  That's  reason  enough  to  hold  one's  head 
high,  don't  you  think? 

[As  he  speaks  thus,  he  turns  his  eyes  to  Maria 
Lodoli,  who  has  shrunk  back,  mute,  pale, 
rigid.  An  "Oh!^'  escapes  her  lips,  betokening 
intense  surprise.  She  is  fairly  transfixed 
with  suspense.] 

SiGNORA  AlBINI. 

My  dear  lieutenant,  we  didn't  speak  of  it  before, 
so  as  not  to  disturb  you,  and  also  because  we  were 
requested  not  to.  This  lady  came  here  to  speak  with 
you;  she's  Lieutenant  Lodoli 's  cousin.  [Graziani 
nods  acknowledgment.]  Your  mother  told  her  that 
you  would  be  here.  She  wished  to  get  news  from  you 
about  L6doli's  death  —  some  of  the  details.  We 
don't  know  just  what.  We'll  leave  her  with  you. 
[With  her  eyes  rather  than  with  her  hands, 
Signora  Albini  signals  Anna  and  Lisa  to 


The  Sparrow  153 

leave.  They  do  so  silently.  Signer  a  Alhini 
follows  thenij  and  very  softly  closes  the  door. 
Maria  hodoli,  as  if  petrified,  seems  to  have 
lost  sight,  voice,  the  power  to  move.  A  pro- 
longed silence.  Then,  without  stirring, 
Maria  Lbdoli  breaks  the  quiet,  in  a  low  voice, 
almost  in  a  single  breath.] 

Maria. 
It's  I.  I'm  the  mother.  I'm  little  Giulio's  mother. 

Graziani. 

[Astounded.] 

You?  ! 

Maria. 

I.  I'm  not  the  dead  man's  cousin.  I'm  not  the  one 
I  said  I  was.  My  name  is  not  Maria  Lodoli.  It's 
something  else.  Don't  ask.  Yes,  yes.  Do  take  the 
child  with  you;  take  it  to  your  mother.  Don't  leave 
it  in  other  hands:  mercenary  hands,  or  too  dehcate 
ones.  Among  poor  folks  he  would  be  a  burden,  and 
among  rich  he  would  be  a  mere  plaything,  a  puppy. 
You're  a  friend  of  his  father's.  You're  altogether 
different.  Is  he  handsome?  Tell  me.  He  was  so 
handsome!  Just  imagine,  I  have  scarcely  seen  him. 
When  he  was  but  a  few  days  old  he  was  taken  away 
from  me.   I  never  saw  him  again. 

Graziani. 
Why? 


IS4  The  Sparrow 

Maria. 
Don't  ask.    I  couldn't.    What  those  years  have 
cost  me!  I  couldn't.  [In  despair.]  I  have  a  husband 

.  .  .  and  another  child  —  his,  my  husband's.  I 
couldn't.  Confess?  Who  confesses  without  hope  of 
pardon?  Leave  my  husband?  That  would  be  a 
worse  infamy.  He  is  so  good!  He  doesn't  suspect  a 
thing.  He  would  be  prostrated.  And  then  there's 
another  —  my  other  Uttle  one.  I  can't  leave  him. 
He's  five  years  old.  To  reclaim  this  one  would  be  to 
lose  the  other.  My  husband  would  have  to  be  a 
saint  to  receive  the  other.  And  then  people  —  what 
would  people  say?  Not  about  me.  What  do  I  care 
about  myself?  But  about  him?  About  my  husband? 
Ah!  Why  is  one  so  weak  against  temptation?  My 
husband  was  in  America;  he,  the  poor  departed,  was 
a  friend  of  my  girlhood  days.  ...  He  visited  the 
house.  ...  He  was  young,  much  younger  than  I 

...  he  had  no  other  ties.  .  .  .  And  the  other  was 
so  far  away  —  had  been,  for  a  year.  A  tiny  town, 
with  no  amusements,  nothing  to  occupy  one's  mind. 
It's  the  same  old  story.  I  was  secluded  for  fom* 
months.  Nobody  knew.  I  was  cared  for  in  a  hos- 
pital .  .  .  long  illness  .  .  .  grave  anemia.  Nobody 
knew.  There.  I  had  told  you  not  to  ask,  and  now 
you  know  everything  from  my  own  lips.  But  you're 
a  soldier.  You'll  keep  it  to  yourself.  He's  a  hand- 
some httle  boy?  My  child  is  a  sweet  dear? 

Graziani. 
A  handsome  little  chap. 


The  Sparrow  155 

Makia. 
Blond?  He  was  blond  when  he  was  born.  April 
10,  1914.  You  see,  I  remember.  He  has  an  old  gold 
medallion  [the  lieutenant  nods  affirmatively].  You  see, 
I  know.  That  was  given  to  me  by  my  poor  dead 
mother  when  I  was  still  a  child.  It  must  be  around 
his  neck.   It's  on  his  neck,  isn't  it? 

Graziani. 
Would  you  like  to  see  him?    Would  you  like  to 
have  a  look  at  your  little  boy? 

Maria. 

[Resolutely J  almost  harshly.] 
No. 

Graziani. 

[Amazed.] 
No?    Why?    He's  down  in  the  automobile.    I'll 
fetch  him  at  once,  well  wrapped. 

Maria. 
No.  If  I  have  a  look  at  him,  I'll  be  unable  to  tear 
myself  away.  And  the  other  one's  waiting  for  me. 
No.  Please  ask  your  mother  to  have  him  say  a  few 
words  for  me  in  his  evening  prayers.  Your  mother 
must  be  so  kind!  A  mere  glance  into  her  face  was 
enough  to  reveal  that.  Let  her  be  indulgent  toward 
me;  let  her  feel  pity.  I  have  sinned;  but  I've  paid 
for  it  and  I'm  paying.  It  consumes  me.  Anemia  — 
they  think  it's  anemia!  And  I  force  myself  to  keep 
up  the  deception,  for  the  sake  of  my  other  little  one, 
and  for  my  poor  husband.  .  .  .  Whatahfe! 


iS6  The  Sparrow 

Graziani. 
I  understand.    I  understand. 

Maria. 

And  you,  you.  How  will  you  have  my  little  boy 
call  you? 

Gra-ziani. 
Uncle.   I'll  be  the  uncle. 

Maria. 

Ah!  He  already  calls  you  that,  does  he?  Tell  me. 
Do.  And  your  mother  —  how  will  he  call  your 
mother?  Not  mamma,  no.  Not  mamma.  Granny. 
Let  him  call  her  granny!  Kiss  her  hands  for  me.  .  .  . 
Kiss  her  hands  for  me.   For  me. 

[A  lovd  clamor  of  feminine  voices  is  heard  from 
within.] 

Voices. 
Here  he  is.   How  handsome!   What  a  dear!  Just 
see  him  smile! 

[Maria  Lodoli  withdraws  to  the  rear,  pale  and 
excited.  Anna  enter Sj  triumphantly  hearing 
aloft  in  her  arms  a  little  fellow  not  much  more 
than  two  years  old,  wrapped  in  a  cover:  it  is 
the  little  sparrow.] 

Anna. 

[To  Graziani.] 

Lieutenant,  we  simply  couldn't  resist  the  tempta- 
tion. We  wanted  so  much  to  see  him.  He  was  awake. 


The  Sparrow  157 

We  took  him  in.  A  biscuit  for  the  little  fellow?  May 
we  give  him  a  biscuit?  Yes?  [Then,  looking  about] 
And  Madame  Lodoli? 

[Maria  Lodoli  has  disappeared.] 


CURTAIN. 


LUIGI  PIRANDELLO 
(1867-     t^l^   . 

Luigi  Pirandello  was  born  on  June  28,  1867  at 
Girgenti,  Sicily.  After  a  thorough  education  in 
Italy  he  went  to  the  University  of  Bonn,  where  he 
was  graduated  in  philosophy  and  philology.  His 
subsequent  career  has  been  devoted  to  professorship,  ^- 
but  has  permitted  him  enough  leisure  in  which  to 
produce  a  veritable  hbrary  of  books,  covering  a  wide 
range  and  revealing  a  fine  quality. 

From  poetry  he  progressed  to  the  novel,  to  criti- 
cism, to  the  theatre.     Indeed,  his  novel  "II  Fu 
Mattia  Pascal''  (1904),  which  has  been  translated 
into  French  and  German,  is  one  of  the  most  original 
Italian  books  of  the  twentieth  century  and  was 
responsible  for  his  stepping  beyond  the  national 
frontier.    It  is  written  in  a  witty,  fluent,  Boccac- 
cesque  style,  in  which  the  author  reveals  his  charac-   \ 
teristic  capability  of  treating  humorously  situations  I 
of  underlying  seriousness.   In  his  fiction  he  has  been  / 
called  a  ^'  gay  pessimist "  —  a  sobriquet  that  seems  to  . 
match  his  paradoxical  style  with  a  corresponding 
paradox;  his  pessimism,  however,  is  found  not  to  be  \ 
the  Anglo-Saxon  type,  for  underneath  it  seems  to 
flow  a  current  of  faith.    The  man's  writings  are  , 
really  topsy-turvy,  compounded  of  cynicism  jostling 
against    sentimentality.    Christian    self-abnegation 

IS9 


i6o  Luigi  Pirandello 

rubbing  elbows  with  anarchic  denial.  Pirandello  is  an 
"intellectual. "  One  suspects  in  him  the  man  whose 
emotions  and  intellect  never  have  reached  a  state  of 
stable  equilibrimn;  now  one,  now  the  other,  is  upper- 
most, with  a  resultant  kaleidoscope  of  many-colored 

'  notions,  ideas,  feelings,  reactions. 

He  has  been  credited  with  having  brought  to  the 
stage  his  own  peculiar  humorism,  upon  which,  by  the  ^ 
way,  he  has  written  a  tightly  packed  volume,  and 

•  he  is  no  small  asset  to  the  "grotesque''  movement.  (^ 
An  American  critic  has  written  that  his  w^ork  for  the 
theatre  lacks  the  "modern"  tinge,  yet  he  is  pecu- 
liarly a  symptom  of  modernity  struggling  to  accli- 
mate itself  upon  the  Italian  "boards."  He  is  no 
stranger  to  the  plays  of  Ibsen,  Shaw,  Bracco.  And 
if  he  began  with  the  bitter-sweet  Httle  piece  by  which 
he  is  represented  in  this  collection,  he  has  since  done 
things  that  single  him  out  for  sheer  daring  and 
originality.     Among   his  numerous  plays  perhaps 

••  "Cosi  e  (se  vi  pare)  —  It's  So,  If  You  Think  It  is  — 
best  shows  him  in  his  puzzling,  paradoxical  mood, 
even  as  "Se  non  cosi"  (If  Not  Thus)  gives  his  best 

f  measure  as  a  dramatist  of  social  change.  The  first 
of  these  is  a  swiftly  moving  three-act  comedy 
designed  to  suggest,  as  the  title  hints,  that  the  truth 
is  hardly  so  easy  to  grasp  as  some  would  imagine.  . 
Perhaps  there  is  more  than  one  truth;  perhaps  when 
people  contradict  each  other  they  are  both  right;  is 
there  such  a  thing  as  truth  at  all?  Is  Truth  a  Delphic 
oracle?  And  what  a  strange,  silly  sight  we  present 
chasing  after  it  with  more  of  the  inquisitive  gossip  in 


Luigi  Pirandello  i6i 

us  than  that  of  the  sober  searcher  after  any  real  good ! 
The  action  is,  up  to  the  somewhat  disconcerting 
close,  quite  breathless,  and  the  story  is  followed  with 
amused  bepuzzlement.  The  second  of  the  plays 
presents  a  strange  twist  to  the  eternal  triangle,  in 
which  the  child  begotten  by  the  erring  husband  and 
his  mistress  is  the  crux  of  the  situation.  For,  curi- 
ously enough,  the  wronged  wife  wishes  to  bring  up 
the  child  as  her  own;  but  so  does  the  real  mother, 
who  is  wilhng  enough  to  have  the  husband  return  to 
the  hearth  whence  he  strayed.  Admitting  the 
plausability  of  the  wife's  views,  the  play  is  strong, 
dignified  and  moving.  There  is  httle  drama  in  the 
conventional  sense,  despite  some  affecting  scenes  in 
the  second  and  third  acts.  The  action  hes  mainly  in 
the  working  out  of  the  wife's  views  and  the  dialogue 
that  arises  from  the  exposition  of  them. 

Pirandello,  Uke  most  of  the  leading  Italians,  writes 
too  much.  His  best,  however,  is  so  plainly  expressive 
of  a  decidedly  arresting  personality  that  it  will 
remain  as  one  of  the  traits  of  contemporary  Italian 
belles-lettres. 


PERSONS 

Micuccio  BoNAviNO,  musician  in  a  country  hand, 

Marta  Marnis,  mother  of 

SiNA  Marnis,  singer, 

Ferdinando,  waiter, 

DoRiNA,  maid. 

Guests. 

Waiters. 

Time:  The  present.     Place:  A  city  in  Northern 
Italy. 


SICILIAN  LIMES 

Scene:  A  hallway,  furnished  simply  with  a  small 
table  and  several  chairs.  The  corner  to  the  left  of  the 
actors  is  hidden  from  view  by  a  curtain.  There  are 
doors  at  the  right  and  the  left.  At  the  rear,  the  main 
door,  of  glass,  is  open  and  leads  to  a  dark  room  across 
which  may  be  seen  a  decorated  door,  likewise  of  glass, 
which  affords  a  view  of  a  splendidly  illuminated  salon. 
The  view  includes  a  table,  sumptuously  spread. 

Night.  The  hallway  is  in  darkness.  Some  one  is 
snoring  behind  the  curtain. 

Shortly^  after  the  rise  of  the  stage  curtain  Ferdinando 
enters  through  the  door  at  the  right  with  a  light  in  his 
hand.  He  is  in  shirt  sleeves,  but  he  has  only  to  put 
on  his  dress-coat  and  he  will  be  ready  to  serve  at  the 
table.  He  is  followed  by  Micuccio  Bonavino,  evidently 
just  from  the  country,  with  his  overcoat  collar  raised  to 
his  ears,  a  grimy  bag  in  one  hand  and  in  the  other  an 
old  valise  and  the  case  of  a  musical  instrument.  He 
is  so  cold  and  so  exhausted  that  he  can  barely  manage 
his  burden.  No  sooner  has  the  light  been  brou^ght  in 
than  the  snoring  behind  the  curtain  ceases. 

DORINA. 

[From  within.] 
Who  is  it? 

163 


164  Sicilian  Limes 

Ferdinando. 
[Placing  the  light  upon  the  little  table,] 
Hey,  Dorina!    Get  up!    Can't  you  see  that  we 
have  Signor  Bonvicino  here? 

Micuccio. 
[Shaking  his  head  so  as  to  get  rid  of  a  drop  at 
the  tip  of  his  nose.] 
My  name's  Bonavino. 

Ferdinando. 
Bonavino,  Bonavino. 

Dorina. 
[Yawning  behind  the  curtain.] 
And  who's  he? 

Ferdinando. 
A  relation  of  madame's.   [To  Micuccio.]  And  just 
how  may  you  be  related  to  madame,  please?  Cousin, 
maybe? 

Micuccio. 

[Embarrassedj  hesitant.] 
Well,  really,  there's  no  relationship.    I  am  .  .  . 
my  name's  Micuccio  Bonavino.   You  know  that. 

Dorina. 
[Her  curiosity  roused,  she  steps  from  behind 
the  curtain,  still  half  asleep.] 
A  relative  of  madame's? 


Sicilian  Limes  165 

Ferdinando. 
^  [Provoked.] 

Can't  you  hear?  [To  Micuccio.]  Countryman  of 
hers?  Then  why  did  you  ask  me  whether  zia  Marta 
was  here?  [To  Dorina.]  Understand?  I  took  hhn 
for  a  relative,  a  nephew.  I  can't  receive  you,  my 
dear  fellow. 

Micuccio. 

What?  Can't  receive  me?  Why,  I've  come  all 
the  way  from  the  country,  on  purpose! 

Ferdinando. 
On  purpose?   What  for? 

Micuccio. 
To  find  her! 

Ferdinando. 
She's  not  here.    I  told  you  she  can't  be  found  in 
at  this  hour. 

Micuccio. 
And  if  the  train  just  came  in,  what  can  I  do  about 
it?   I've  been  traveling  for  two  days. 

Dorina. 
[Eyeing  him  from  head  to  toe.\ 
And  you  look  it! 

Micuccio. 
I  do,  eh?  Very  much?  How  do  I  look? 

Dorina. 
Ugly,  my  dear  fellow.    No  offense. 


i66  Sicilian   Limes 

Ferdinando. 
I  can't  receive  you.    Call  again  tomorrow  and 
you'll  find  her.   The  madame  is  at  the  theatre  now. 

Micuccio. 
What  do  you  mean,   call  again?    Must  I  go? 
Where?   I  don't  know  where  to  go  in  this  town,  at 
night.  I'm  a  stranger.   If  she  isn't  here,  I'll  wait  for 
her.   Really  now.   Can't  I  wait  for  her  here? 

Ferdinando. 
I  say  No!   Without  her  permission. 

Micuccio. 
What  permission!   You  don't  know  me. 

Ferdinando. 
That's  just  it.    Because  I  don't  know  you,  I'm 
not  going  to  get  a  bawling-out  on  account  of  you! 

Micuccio. 
[Smiling  with  a  confident  air  and  with  his 
finger  making  a  negative  sign.] 
Rest  easy. 

DORINA. 

[To  Ferdinando,  ironically.] 

Indeed,  she'll  be  just  in  the  proper  mood  to  attend 

to  him  this  evening.    [To  Micuccio.]   Can't  you  see? 

[She  points  to  the  illuminated  salon  in  the  rear.]  There's 

a  party  on  tonight! 

Micuccio. 
So?   What  party? 


Sicilian   Limes  167 

DORINA. 

An  evening  in  [she  yawns\  her  honor. 

Ferdinando. 
And  we'll  get  through,  God  willing,  by  daybreak! 

Micuccio. 
All  right,  no  matter.    I'm  sure  that  the  moment 
Teresina  sees  me.  .  . 

Ferdinando. 

[To  Dorina.] 
Understand?     He   calls   her   Teresina,   he   does. 
Plain  Teresina.    He  asked  me  whether  "Teresina, 
the  singer''  was  in. 

Micuccio. 
Well,  what  of  it?  Isn't  she  a  singer?  That's  what 
they  call  it.   Are  you  trying  to  teach  me? 

Dorina. 
Then  you  really  know  her  well? 

Micuccio. 
Well?  Why,  we  grew  up  together! 

Ferdinando. 

[To  Dorina.] 
What  shall  we  do? 

Dorina. 
Let  him  wait. 

Micuccio. 

[Piqued.] 
Of  course  I'll  wait.   What  do  you  mean?   I  came 
on  purpose  to  .  .  . 


i68  Sicilian   Limes 

Ferdinando. 

Take  a  seat  there.  I  wash  my  hands  of  it.  I  must 
get  things  ready.  [He  leaves  in  the  direction  of  the 
salon  at  the  rear.] 

Micuccio. 

This  is  fine,  indeed.  As  if  I  were  .  .  .  Perhaps 
because  they  see  me  in  this  condition  ...  If  I  were 
to  tell  Teresina  when  she  returns  from  the  theatre. 
[He  is  seized  hy  a  dovbt  and  looks  about  him.]  Whose 
house  is  this? 

DORINA. 

[Eyeing  him  and  poking  fun  at  him.] 
Ours  —  as  long  as  we  stay. 

Micuccio. 
So,  then,  things  are  going  well.    [He  inspects  the 
place  anew,  staring  into  the  salon.]  Is  it  a  large  house? 

DORINA. 

So  so. 

Micuccio. 
And  that's  a  salon? 

DORINA. 

A  reception  hall.  Tonight  there's  a  banquet  there. 

Micuccio. 
Ah!  What  a  spread!  What  bright  lights! 

DORINA. 

Beautiful,  isn't  it? 


Sicilian   Limes  169 

Micuccio. 

[Rubbing  his  hands  contentedly.] 


Then  it's  true! 

DORINA. 

What? 

Micuccio. 
Eh,  it's  easily  seen,  they're  well.  .  . 

DORINA. 

In  good  health? 

Micuccio. 
No,  I  mean  well  off.    [He  rubs  his  thumb  against 
his  forefinger,  in  a  manner  to  suggest  the  counting  of 
m^ney.] 

DORINA. 

Why,  do  you  know  who  Sina  Marnis  is? 

Micuccio. 
Sina?  Ah,  yes,  yes,  now  I  understand.   Zia  Marta     ' 
wrote  me  about  it.   Teresina.   Certainly.   Tere-sina: 
Sina.  .  . 

DORINA. 

But  wait  a  moment.  Now  that  I  think  of  it.  You 
[She  calls  Ferdinando  from  the  salon.]  Do  you  know 
who  he  is?  The  fellow  that  she's  always  writing  to, 
the  mother  .  .  . 

Micuccio. 
She  can't  write,  the  poor  little  thing  .  r  . 


I70  Sicilian   Limes 

DORINA. 

Yes,  yes.    Bonavino.   But  .  .  .  Domenico.  Your 
name's  Domenico,  isn't  it? 

Micuccio. 
Domenico  or  Micuccio.   It's  the  same  thing.   We 
call  it  Micuccio  where  I  come  from. 

DORINA. 

You're  the  fellow  that  was  so  sick,  aren't  you? 
Recently  .  .  . 

Micuccio. 

Terribly,  yes.  At  death's  door.  Dead.  Practically 
dead. 

DORINA. 

And   Signora   Marta   sent  you  a  money  order, 
didn't  she?   We  went  to  the  post-office  together. 

Micuccio. 
A  money  order.     A  money  order.     And  that's 
what  I've  come  for!    I  have  it  here  —  the  money. 

DORINA. 

Are  you  returning  it  to  her? 

Micuccio. 

[Disturbed.] 

Money  —  nothing!     It's   not   to   be   mentioned. 

But  first  .  .  .  Will  they  be  much  longer  in  coming? 

DORINA. 

[Looks  at  the  clock.] 
Oh,  about  .  .  .  Sometime  tonight,  I  imagine  .  .  . 


Sicilian  Limes  171 


Ferdinando.   ' 
[Passing  through  the  hallway,  from  the  door  at 
the  left,  carrying  kitchen  utensils  and  shouiing 
applause.] 
Bravo!   Bravo!    Bis!    Bis!    Bis! 

Micuccio. 

[Smiling,] 
A  great  voice,  eh? 

Ferdinando. 

[Turning  back.] 
I  should  say  so.   A  voice.  .  . 

Micuccio. 

[Rubbing  his  palms.] 
I  can  take  the  credit  for  that!  It's  my  work! 

DORINA. 

Her  voice? 

Micuccio. 
I  discovered  it! 

DORINA. 

What,  you?   [To  Ferdinando.]  Do  you  hear?  He 
discovered  her  voice. 

Micuccio. 
I'm  a  musician,  I  am. 

Ferdinando. 
Ah!  A  musician?  Bravo!  And  what  do  you  play? 
The  trumpet? 


172  Sicilian  Limes 

Micuccio. 
[At  fir  sty  in  all  seriousness  j  makes  a  negative 
sign  with  his  finger;  then] 
Who  said  trumpet?  The  piccolo.   I  belong  to  the 
band,  I  do.   I  belong  to  our  communal  band  up  at 
my  place. 

DORINA. 

And  what's  the  name  of  your  place?  Wait;   I'll 
recall  it. 

Micuccio. 
Palma   Monetchiaro.     What   else   should   it   be 
named? 

Ferdinando. 

And  it  was  really  you  who  discovered  her  voice? 

DORINA. 

Come  now,  my  boy.    Tell  us  how  you  did  it, 
sonny!  Wait  and  listen  to  this,  Ferdinando. 

Micuccio. 

[Shrugging  his  shoulders.] 
How  I  did  it?   She  used  to  sing  .  .  . 

DORINA. 

And  at  once,  you  being  a  musician  .  .  .  eh? 

Micuccio. 
No  .  .  .  not  at  once;  on  the  other  hand  .  .  • 

Ferdinando. 
It  took  you  some  time? 


Sicilian  Limes  173 

Micuccio. 
She  always  used  to  be  singing  .  .  .  sometimes  out 
of  pique.  .  . 

DOBINA. 

Really? 

Micuccio. 
And  then  again,  to  ...  to  get  certain  thoughts 
out  of  her  mind  .  .  .  because  .  .  . 

Ferdinando. 
Because  what? 

Micuccio. 
Oh,  certain  unpleasant  things  .  .  .  disappoint- 
ments, poor  little  girl  ...  in  those  days.  Her 
father  had  died.  .  .  I, —  yes,  I  helped  her  out  a  bit 
.  .  .  her  and  her  mother,  zia  Marta.  .  .  But  my 
mother  was  against  it  .  .  .  and  ...  in  short  .  .  . 

DORINA. 

You  were  fond  of  her,  then? 

Micuccio. 
I?  OfTeresina?  You  make  me  laugh !  My  mother 
insisted  on  my  giving  her  up  because  she  didn't  have 
anything,  and  had  lost  her  father  .  .  .  while  I,  come 
good  or  evil,  had  my  position  in  the  band.  .  . 

Ferdinando. 
So  .  .  .  You're  not  related  at  all,  then.    Lovers, 
maybe? 


174  Sicilian   Limes 

Micuccio. 
My  parents  were  against  it!    And  that's  why 
Teresina  sang  out  of  spite.  .  . 

DORINA. 

Ah!  Just  listen  to  that.  .  .  And  you? 
Micuccio. 

It  was  heaven!  I  can  truly  say:  an  inspiration 
from  heaven!  Nobody  had  ever  noticed  it  —  not 
even  I.   All  of  a  sudden  .  .  .  one  morning  .  .  . 

Ferdinando. 
There's  luck  for  you! 

Micuccio. 
I'll  never  forget  it.  .  .  It  was  a  morning  in  April. 
She  was  at  the  window,  singing.  .  .  Up  in  the  garret, 
beneath  the  roof! 

Ferdinando. 
Understand? 

DORINA. 

Hush! 

Micuccio. 
What's  wrong  about  that?   The  humblest  of  folk 
can  have  the  greatest  of  gifts. 

DORINA. 

Of  course  they  can!  As  you  were  saying?  She  was 
at  the  window  singing.  .  . 

Micuccio. 
I  had  heard  her  sing  that  little  air  of  ours  surely 
a  himdred  thousand  times. 


Sicilian  Limes      ,         175 

DORINA. 

Little  air? 

Micyccio. 
Yes.  "All  things  in  this  world  beloWo "  That^s  the 
name  of  it. 

Ferdinando. 
Eh!   All  things  in  this  world  below.  .  . 

Micuccio. 

[Reciting  the  words.] 

All  things  in  this  world  below, 

Live  their  day  and  then  depart ; 

But  this  thorn  that  pricks  my  heart, 

Darling  mine,  will  never  go. 

And  what  a  melody!    Divine,  impassioned.  .  . 

Enough  of  that.  I  had  never  paid  any  attention  to  it. 

But  that  morning.  .  .  It  was  as  if  I  were  in  paradise! 

An  angel,   it  seemed  that  an  angel  was  singing! 

That  day,  after  dinner,  ever  so  quietly,  without 

letting  her  or  her  mother  know  a  thing  about  it,  I 

took  up  into  the  garret  the  leader  of  our  band,  who's 

a  friend  of  mine,  uh,  a  very  close  friend,  for  that 

matter:    Saro  Malvati,  such  a  kind-hearted  chap, 

the  poor  fellow.  .  .  He  hears  her,  he's  a  clever  boy, 

a  great  leader,  so  they  all  say  at  Palma.  .  .  And  he 

says,  '^Why,  this  is  a  God-given  voice!"    Imagine 

our  joy!   I  hired  a  piano,  and  before  it  was  got  up 

into  that  attic.  .  .  Well.   Then  I  bought  the  music, 

and  right  a  way  the  leader  began  to  give  her  lessons.  .  . 

Just  like  that,  satisfied  with  whatever  they  could 

give  him  from  time  to  time.    What  was  I?    Same 


176  Sicilian   Limes 

as  I  am  today;  a  poor,  humble  fellow.  .  .  The  piano 
cost  money,  the  music  cost  money,  and  then  Teresina 
had  to  eat  decent  food.  .  . 

Ferdinando. 
Eh,  of  course. 

DORINA. 

So  that  she^s  had  the  strength  to  sing.  .  , 

Micuccio. 
Meat,  every  day!  I  can  take  the  credit  for  that! 

Ferdinando. 
The  deuce  you  say! 

DORINA. 

And  so? 

Micuccio. 

And  so  she  began  to  learn.  You  could  see  it  all 
from  the  very  beginning.  .  .  It  was  written  above, 
in  heaven,  you  might  say.  .  .  And  it  was  heard 
throughout  the  whole  country,  that  great  voice  of 
hers.  .  .  The  people  would  come  from  all  around, 
and  stand  beneath  the  window  in  the  street,  to 
hear  her.  .  .  And  what  spirit!  She  burned,  she 
really  was  aj&re.  .  .  And  when  she  would  finish 
singing,  she'd  grasp  me  by  the  arm,  like  this  [he  seizes 
Ferdinando]  and  would  shake  me.  .  .  Just  like  a 
madwoman.  .  .  For  she  already  foresaw.  She 
knew  that  fame  was  hers.  .  .  The  leader  told  us  so. 
And  she  didn't  know  how  to  show  me  her  grateful- 
ness. Zia  Marta,  on  the  other  hand,  poor  woman 
that  she  was  .  .  . 


Sicilian  Limes  177 

DORINA. 

Was  against  her  career? 

Micuccio. 
I  wouldn't  say  that  she  was  against  it  —  she  didn't 
beHeve  it,  that  was  it.  The  poor  old  lady  had  had 
so  many  hard  knocks  in  her  life  that  she  didn't 
want  Teresina  to  take  it  into  her  head  to  rise  above 
the  position  to  which  she  had  been  so  long  resigned. 
She  was,  in  plain  words,  afraid.  And  then  she  knew 
what  it  cost  me,  and  that  my  parents.  .  .  But  I 
broke  with  them  all,  with  my  father,  with  my 
mother,  when  a  certain  teacher  came  from  outside.  .  . 
He  used  to  give  concerts.  .  .  A.  .  .  I  can't  remem- 
ber his  name  now —  but  he  had  a  fine  reputation.  .  . 
When  this  master  heard  Teresina  and  said  that  it 
would  be  a  sin,  a  real  sin  not  to  have  her  continue 
her  studies  in  a  city,  in  a  great  conservatory  .  .  . 
I  broke  with  them  all.  I  sold  the  farm  that  had 
been  left  to  me  by  an  uncle  of  mine,  a  priest,  and 
sent  Teresina  to  Naples. 


You? 

Ferdinando. 

Micuccio. 

Yes,  L— I. 

DORINA. 

[To  Ferdinando.] 
At  his  expense,  don't  you  understand? 


178  Sicilian  Limes 

Micuccio. 
I  kept  her  there  for  four  years,  studying.  I  haven't 
seen  her  since  then. 

DORINA. 

Never? 

Micuccio. 

Never.  Because  .  .  .  because  she  began  to  sing 
in  the  theatres,  you  see,  here  and  there.  .  .  She'd 
fly  from  Naples  to  Rome,  from  Rome  to  Milan,  then 
to  Spain,  then  to  Russia,  then  back  here  again.  .  . 

Ferdinando. 

Creating  a  furore  everywhere! 

EKTT^now  all  about  it!  I've  got  them  all  here, 
in  the  valise,  all  the  papers.  .  .  And  in  here  [he 
removed  from  his  inside  coat  pocket  a  bundle  of  letters.] 
I  have  all  the  letters,  hers  and  her  mother's.  .  . 
Here  you  are :  these  are  her  words  when  she  sent  me 
the  money,  that  time  I  was  on  the  point  of  death: 
''Dear  Micuccio,  I  haven't  time  to  write  to  you. 
I  confirm  everything  that  mamma  has  said.  Get 
better  at  once,  become  your  old  self  again,  and  wish 
me  well.   Teresina. " 

Ferdinando 
And  did  she  send  you  much? 

DORINA. 

A  thousand  lire  —  wasn't  it? 

Micuccio. 
That  was  it.  A  thousand. 


Sicilian  Limes  179 

Ferdinando. 
And  that  farm  of  yours,  if  I  may  ask  —  that  you 
sold.   How  much  was  it  worth? 

Micuccio. 
How  much  should  it  be  worth?    Not  much  .  .  . 
A  mere  strip  of  land.  .  . 

Ferdinando. 

[Winking  to  Dorina.] 
Ah! 

Micuccio. 
But  I  have  the  money  right  here,  I  have.  I  don't 
want  anything  at  all.  What  little  I've  done,  I've 
done  for  her  sake.  We  had  agreed  to  wait  two, 
three  years,  so  as  to  let  her  make  a  place  for  her- 
self. .  .  Zia  Marta  kept  writing  that  to  me  all  the 
time  in  her  letters.  I  speak  the  plain  truth :  I  wasn't 
waiting  for  the  money.  So  many  years  had  passed 
I  could  wait  a  while  longer.  .  .  But  seeing  that 
Teresina  has  sent  it  to  me,  it's  a  sign  she  has  enough 
and  to  spare;  she's  made  a  place  for  herself,  .  . 

Ferdinando. 
I  should  say!   And  what  a  place,  my  dear  sir! 

Micuccio. 
Then  it's  time  ... 

Dorina. 
To  marry? 

Micuccio. 
I  am  here. 


i8o  Sicilian   Limes 

Ferdinando. 
Have  you  come  to  marry  Sina  Marnis? 

DORINA. 

Hush!   That's  their  agreement!  Can't  you  under- 
stand anything?  Certainly!  To  marry  her! 

Micuccio. 
I'm  not  saying  anything.  I  simply  say:  I'm  here. 
I've  abandoned  everything  and  everybody  yonder 
in  the  country:  family,  band,  everything.  I  went 
to  law  against  my  parents  on  account  of  those 
thousand  lire,  which  came  unknown  to  me,  at  the 
time  I  was  more  dead  than  alive.  I  had  to  tear  it 
out  of  my  mother's  hands,  for  she  wanted  to  keep  it. 
Ah,  no  sirree  —  it  isn't  the  money!  Micuccio  Bona- 
vino,  money?  —  Not  at  all!  Wherever  I  may  happen 
to  be,  even  at  the  end  of  the  world,  I  won't  starve. 
I  have  my  art.   I  have  my  piccolo,  and  .  .  . 

DORINA. 

You  have?  Did  you  bring  along  your  piccolo,  too? 

Micuccio  . 
Sure  I  did!  We're  as  one  person,  my  piccolo  and 
I... 

Ferdinando. 

She  sings  and  he  plays.  Understand? 

Micuccio. 
Don't  you  think  I  can  play  in  the  orchestra? 


Sicilian  Limes  i8i 

Ferdinando. 
Certainly!   Why  not? 

DORINA. 

And,  1*11  bet  you  play  well! 

Micuccio. 
So  so;  I've  been  playing  for  ten  years.  .  . 

Ferdinando. 
Would   you    mind   letting   us    hear    something? 
[About  to  take  the  instrument  case.] 

DORINA. 

Yes!  Bravo,  bravo!   Let's  hear  something! 

Micuccio. 
Oh,  no!   What  would  you  want,  at  this  hour.  .  . 

DORINA. 

Anything  at  all!   Please,  now! 

Ferdinando. 
Some  little  air.  .  . 

Micuccio, 
Oh,  no.  .  .  Really!  .  .  . 

Ferdinando. 
Don't  make  us  coax  you!   [He  opens  the  case  and 
removes  the  instrument.]   Here  you  are! 

Dorina. 
Come,  now.    Let's  hear  something.  .  . 


1 82  Sicilian   Limes 

Micuccio. 
But,     really,     it's     impossible.  .  .  Like    this  — 
alone.  .  . 

DORINA. 

No  matter!   Come  on.   Make  a  try! 

Ferdinando. 
If  you  don't.  111  play  the  thing! 

Micuccio. 
For  me,  if  you  wish.  .  .  Shall  I  play  for  you  the 
air  that  Teresina  sang  that  day,  up  in  the  garret? 

Ferdinando  and  Dorina. 
Yes,  yes!    Bravo!    Bravo! 

Ferdinando. 
"All  things  in  this  world  below"  ? 

Micuccio. 
All  things  in  this  world  below. 

[Micuccio  sits  down  and  begins  to  play  in  all 
seriousness.  Ferdinando  and  Dorina  do 
their  best  to  keep  from  bursting  into  laughter. 
The  other  waiter j  in  dress  coat,  comes  in  to 
listen,  followed  by  the  cooh  and  the  scullion. 
Ferdinando  and  Dorina  caution  them  by  signs 
to  listen  quietly  and  earnestly.  Micuccio^s 
playing  is  suddenly  interrupted  by  a  loud 
ringing  of  the  bell.] 

Ferdinando. 
Oh!  Here's  madame! 


Sicilian  Limes  183 

DORINA. 

[To  the  other  waiters,] 

Be  off,  now.  Open  the  door.   [To  the  cook  and  the 

scullion.]   And  you,  clear  out!   She  said  she  wanted 

to  have  dinner  served  as  soon  as  she  came  back. 

[The  other  waiter,  the  cook  and  the  scullion  leave.] 

Ferdinando. 

My  dress  coat.  .  .  Where  did  I  put  it? 

DORINA. 

There!   [She  paints  to  behind  the  hangings  and 
leaves  in  haste.] 

[Micucdo  arises,  his  instrument  in  his  hand, 
abashed.  Ferdinando  finds  his  coat,  puts  it 
on  hurriedly,  then,  seeing  that  Micucdo  is 
about  to  follow  Dorina,  stops  him  rudely.] 

Ferdinando. 
You  stay  here!    I  must  first  let  madame  know. 
[Ferdinando  leaves.   Micucdo  is  left  in  dejec- 
tion,   confused,    oppressed    by    an    uneasy 
presentiment.] 

Marta's  Voice. 

[From  within.] 

In  there,  Dorina!  In  the  drawing  room! 

[Ferdinando,  Dorina  and  the  other  waiter  enter 
from  the  door  at  the  right  and  cross  the  stage 
toward  the  salon  in  the  background,  carrying 
magnificent  baskets  of  fiowers,  wreaths,  and 
so  on.   Micucdo  sticks  his  head  forward  to 


184  Sicilian   Limes 

get  a  look  into  the  salon  and  catches  sight  of 
a  large  number  of  gentlemen,  all  in  evening 
dress,  conversing  confusedly,  Dorina  returns 
in  a  great  hurry,  hastening  to  the  door  at 
the  right.] 

Micuccio. 


Who  are  they? 


[Touching  her  arm.] 


Dorina. 

[Without  stopping.] 
The  guests!  [Exit.] 

[Micuccio  stares  again.  His  vision  becomes 
clouded.  His  stupefaction  and  his  commotion 
are  so  great  that  he  himself  does  not  realize 
that  his  eyes  are  moist  with  tears.  He  closes 
them,  pulls  himself  together,  as  if  to  resist 
the  torture  inflicted  upon  him  by  a  shrill 
outburst  of  laughter.  It  is  Sina  Marnis,  in 
the  salon.  Dorina  returns  with  two  more 
baskets  of  flowers.] 

Dorina. 
[Without  stopping,  hastening  toward  the  salon.] 
What  are  you  crying  about? 

Micuccio. 
I?  .  .  .  No.  .  .  All  those  people  .  .  . 

[Enter  ZIA  Marta  from  the  door  at  the  right. 
The  poor  old  lady  is  oppressed  by  a  hat  and  a 
costly,  splendid  velvet  cloak.  As  soon  as  she 
sees  Micuccio  she  utters  a  cry  that  is  at  once 
suppressed.] 


Sicilian  Limes  185 


Marta. 
What!   Micuccio,  you  here? 

Micuccio. 

[Uncovering  his  face  and  staring  at  her  almost 
in  fear.] 
Zia   Marta!    Good    Lord.  .  .  Like    this?     You? 

Marta. 
Why,  what's  wrong  with  me? 

Micuccio. 
With  a  hat?    You! 

Marta. 
Ah.  .  .  [Shakes   her  head  and  raises   her  hand,. 
Then,  disturbed.]    But  how  on  earth  did  you  come? 
Without  a  word  of  warning!    How  did  it  happen? 

Micuccio. 
I  ...  I   came  ... 

Marta. 
And  this  evening,  of  all  others!   Oh,  heavens.  .  . 
Wait.  .  .  What  shall  I  do?   What  shall  I  do?    Do 
you  see  how  many  people  we  have  here,  my  son? 
Tonight  is  the  party  in  honor  of  Teresina.  .  . 

Micuccio. 
I  know. 

Marta. 
Her  special  evening,  understand?   Wait.  .  .   Just 
wait  here  a  moment.  .  . 


1 86  Sicilian  Limes 

Micuccio. 
If  you,  if  you  think  that  it  would  be  best  for  me 
to  go.  .  . 

Marta. 
No.    Wait    a    moment,  I  say.  .  .  [She  goes  off 
toward  the  salon.] 

Micuccio.  ' 
I  wouldn't  know  where  to  go.  .  .  In  this  strange 
city.  .  . 

[ZIA  Marta  returns,  and  signals  him  with  her 
gloved  hand  to  wait.  She  enters  the  salon  and 
suddenly  there  is  a  deep  silence.  There  are 
heard  clearly  these  words  of  Sina  Marnis: 
"il  moment,  my  friends!^'  Micuccio  again 
hides  his  face  in  his  hands.  But  Sina  does 
not  come.  Instead,  ZIA  Marta  enters  shortly 
afterward,  without  her  hat,  without  her  gloves, 
without  her  cloak,  now  less  burdened.] 

Marta. 
Here  I  am.  .  .  Here  I  am.  .  . 

Micuccio. 
And  .  .  .  and  Teresina? 

Marta. 
IVe  told  her.  .  .  IVe  brought  her  the  news.  .  . 
As  soon  as  ...  as  soon  as  she  can  get  a  moment, 
she'll  come.  .  .  In  the  meantime  we'll  stay  here  a 
little  while,  eh?  Are  you  satisfied? 


Sicilian  Limes  187 

Micuccio. 
As  far  as  I'm  concerned.  .  . 
Marta.  • 
I'll  keep  you  company.  .  . 
Micuccio. 
Oh,  no,   ...  if  ...  if  you'd  rather  .  .  .  that 
is,  if  you're  needed  there.  .  . 

Marta. 
Not  at  all.  .  .  They're  having  supper  now,  see? 
Admirers  of  hers.  .  .  The  impresario.  .  .  Her  career, 
understand?  We  two  will  stay  here.  Dorina  will 
prepare  this  little  table  for  us  right  away,  and  .  .  . 
and  we'll  have  supper  together,  just  you  and  I,  here — 
eh?  What  do  you  say?  We  two,  all  alone  —  eh? 
We'll  recall  the  good  old  times.  .  .  [Dorina  returns 
through  the  door  at  the  left  with  a  tablecloth  and  other 
articles  of  the  table  service.] 

Marta. 
Come  on,   Dorina.  .  .  Lively,   now.  .  .  For  me 
and  for  this  dear  boy  of  mine.   My  dear  Micuccio! 
I  can't  believe  that  we're  together  again. 

Dorina. 
Here.  In  the  meantime,  please  be  seated. 

Marta. 

[Sitting  down.] 

Yes,  yes.  .  .  Here,  like  this,  apart  from  the  others, 

we   two   alone.  .  .  In   there,   you   understand,   so 

many  people.  .  .  She,  poor  thing,  can't  very  well 


i88  Sicilian  Limes 

leave  them.  .  .  Her  career.  .  .  What  else  can  she 
do?  Have  you  seen  the  papers?  Wonderful  happen- 
ings, my  boy!  And  as  for  me,  I'm  all  in  a  whirl.  .  . 
It  seems  impossible  that  I  should  be  sitting  here  alone 
with  you  tonight.  .  .  [She  rubs  her  hands  and  smiles, 
gazing  at  him  through  tender  eyes.] 

Micuccio. 
[In  a  pensive,  anguished  voice.] 
And,  she'll  come?    She  told  you  she'd  come?    I 
mean  .  .  .  just  to  get  a  look  at  her,  at  least.  .  . 

Marta. 
Of  course  she'll  come!  As  soon  as  she  can  find  a 
moment  to  spare.  Didn't  I  tell  you  so?  Why,  just 
imagine  what  pleasure  it  would  be  for  her  to  be  here 
with  us,  with  you,  after  such  a  long  time.  .  .  How 
many  years  is  it?  So  many,  so  many.  .  .  Ah,  my 
dear  boy,  it  seems  an  eternity  to  me.  .  .  How  many 
things  I've  been  through,  things  that  .  .  .  that  hardly 
seem  true  when  I  think  of  them.  .  .  Who  could  have 
imagined,  when  .  .  .  when  we  were  yonder  in  Palma 
when  you  used  to  come  up  into  our  garret,  with  its 
swallows'  nests  in  the  rafters,  remember?  They 
used  to  fly  all  over  the  house,  and  my  beautiful 
pots  of  basil  on  the  window-sill.  .  .  And  donna 
Annuzza,  donna  Annuzza?  Our  old  neighbor? 

Micuccio. 
Eh.  .  .  [Makes  the  sign  of  benediction  with  two 
fingers,  to  signify.  Dead!] 


u 


Sicilian  Limes  189 


Makta. 
Dead?  Yes,  I  imagined  so.  .  .  She  was  a  pretty- 
old  lady  even  then.  .  .  Older  than  I.  .  .  Poor 
donna  Annunzza,  with  her  clove  of  garlic.  .  .  Do 
you  remember?  She'd  always  come  with  that 
pretext,  a  clove  of  garlic.  Just  when  we  were  about 
to  send  her  down  a  bite,  and  .  .  .  The  poor  old  lady! 
And  who  knows  how  many  more  have  passed  on 
\  eh?  at  Palma.  .  .  Ah!  At  least  they  rest  yonder, 
in  their  last  sleep,  in  our  churchyard,  with  their 
beloved  ones  and  relatives.  .  .  While  I.  .  .  Who 
knows  where  I'll  leave  these  bones  of  mine?  Enough 
of  that.  .  .  Away  with  such  thoughts!  [Dorina 
enters  with  the  first  course  and  stands  beside  MicucciOy 
waiting  Jor  him  to  help  himself.]  Ah,  here's  Dorina.  .  . 

Micuccio. 

{Looks  at  Dorina,  then  at  ZIA  Marta,  confused, 

perplexed;  he  raises  his  hand  to  help  himself, 

sees  that  they  are  grimy  from  the  journey 

and  lowers  them^  more  confused  than  ever.] 

Marta. 
Here,  over  here,  Dorina!  I'll  serve  him.  .  .  Leave 
it  to  me.  .  .  [Does  so.]   There.  .  .  That's  fine,  isn't 
it? 

Micuccio. 
Oh,  yes  .  .  .  Thanks  . 

Marta. 

[Who  has  served  herself,] 
Here  you  are  ... 


190  Sicilian  Limes 

Micuccio. 
[Winking,  and  with  his  closed  fist  against  his 
cheek  making  a  gesture  of  ecstatic  approval.] 
Uhm  .  .  .  Good  .  ,  .  Good  stuff. 

Marta. 
A  special  honor-evening  .  .  .  Understand?  To  it, 
now!   Let's  eat!   But  first  .  .  .  [She  makes  the  sign 
of  the  cross.]  Here  I  can  do  it,  in  your  company. 

Micuccio. 
[Likewise  makes  the  sign  of  the  cross,] 

Marta. 
Bravo,  my  boy!  You,  too  .  .  .  Bravo,  my 
Micuccio,  the  same  as  ever,  poor  fellow!  Believe 
me  .  .  .  When  I  have  to  eat  in  there  .  .  .  without 
being  able  to  cross  myself  ...  it  seems  to  me  that 
the  food  can*t  go  down  ...  Eat,  eat! 

Micuccio. 
Eh,  I'm  good  and  hungry,  I  am!  I  ...  I  haven't 
eaten  for  two  days. 

Marta. 
What  do  you  mean?  On  the  trip? 

Micuccio. 
I  took  plenty  to  eat  along  with  me  ...  I  have  it 
there,  in  the  valise.   But  .  .  . 

Marta. 
But  what? 


Sicilian  Limes  191 

Micuccio. 
I  ...  I  was  ashamed  ...  It  ...  it  seemed  so 
little  ... 

Marta. 
Oh,  how  silly !  .  .  .  Come,  now.  .  .  Eat,  my  poor 
Micuccio.  .  .  You    certainly    must    be    famished! 
Two    days  .  .  .  And  drink  .  .  .  here,    drink  .  .  . 
[She  pours  some  liquor  for  him.] 

Micuccio. 
Thanks  .  .  .  Yes,  I'll  have  some  .  .  . 

[From  time  to  time,  as  the  two  waiters  enter 
the  salon  in  the  background  or  leave  it  with 
the  courses,  opening  the  door,  there  comes 
from  inside  a  wave  of  confused  words  and 
outbursts  of  laughter.  Micuccio  raises  his 
head  from  his  plate,  disturbed,  and  looks 
into  the  sorrowful  affectionate  eyes  of  ZIA 
Marta,  as  if  to  read  in  them  an  explanation 
of  it  all] 
They're  laughing. 

Marta. 
Yes  .  .  .  Drink  .  .  .  Drink  .  .  .  Ah,  that  good 
old  wine  of  ours,  Micuccio.  If  you  only  knew  how 
how  I  long  for  it!  The  wine  Michela  used  to  make, 
Michela,  who  lived  underneath  us  .  .  .  What's 
become  of  Michela,  my  son? 

Micuccio. 
Michela?    Oh,  she's  fine.    She's  fine. 


192  Sicilian  Limes 

Marta. 
And  her  daughter  Luzza? 

Micuccio. 
She's  married  .  .  .  Has  two  children  already.  .  . 

Marta. 
Is  that  so?   Really?   She'd  always  come  up  to  us, 
remember?    Such  a  happy  nature,  too!    Oh,  Luzza. 
And  to  think  of  it  .  .  .  Just  to  think  of  it  .  .  . 
Married  .  .  .  And  whom  did  she  marry? 

Micuccio. 
Toto  Licasi,  the  fellow  that  worked  in  the  customs 
house.    Remember  him? 

Marta. 
Him?     Fine  .  .  .  And   donna   Mariangela   is   a 
grandmother!    A  grandmother  already  .  .  .  Fortu- 
nate woman!    Two  children,  did  you  say? 

Micuccio. 

Two  .  .     yes  .  .  .  [He  is   disturbed   by   another 
roar  of  merriment  from  the  salon.] 

Marta. 
Aren't  you  drinking? 

Micuccio. 
Yes  .  .  .  Right  away  ... 
Marta. 
Don't  mind  them  .  .  .  They're  laughing,  natur- 
ally .  .  .  There's  so  many  of  them  there  .  .  .  My 


Sicilian  Limes  193 

dear  boy,  that's  life.    What  can  a  person  do?   Her 
career  .  .  .  It's  the  impresario  ... 

DORINA. 

[Reappears  with  another  course.] 

Marta. 
Here,    Dorina  .  .  .  Let    me    have    your    plate, 
Micuccio  .  .  .  You'll  like  this  .  .  .  [Serving.]    Tell 
me  how  much  you  want  .  .  . 

Micuccio. 
As  you  please.  .  . 

Marta. 

[As  above.] 
Here  you  are.    [Serves  herself.   Dorina  leaves.] 

Micuccio. 
How  well  you've  learned!    You  make  my  eyes 
bulge  with  astonishment! 

Marta. 
I  had  to,  my  boy. 

Micuccio. 
When  I  saw  you  come  in  with  that  velvet  cloak 
on  your  back  .  .  .  and  that  hat  on  your  head  .  .  . 

Marta. 
Necessity,   my  son! 

Micuccio. 
I    understand  ...  eh!      You    must    keep    up 
appearances!  But  if  they  ever  saw  you  dressed  like 
that  in  Palma,  zia  Marta  .  .  . 


194  Sicilian  Limes 

Marta. 

[Hiding  her  face  in  her  hands.] 
Oh,  good  heavens,  don^t  mention  it!  Believe 
me  .  .  .  whenever  I  think  of  it  .  .  .  shame  .  .  . 
shame  overwhelms  me!  ...  I  look  at  myself.  I 
say,  "Is  this  really  I,  so  bedizened?"  .  .  .  And  it 
seems  that  it's  all  a  make-believe  ...  as  in  the 
carnival  season  .  .  .  But  what's  a  person  to  do? 
Necessity,  my  son! 

Micuccio. 
Of  course  .  .  .  certainly  .  .  .  once  you  get  into 
that  life  .  .  .  But,  she's  really  'way  up  in  the  world, 
hey? ....  You  can  see  that  —  really  'way  up?  .  .  . 
They  .  .  .  they  pay  her  well,  eh? 

Marta. 
Oh,  yes  .  .  .  Very  well.  .  . 

Micuccio. 
How  much  per  performance? 

Marta. 
It  depends.  According  to  the  seasons  and  the 
theatres,  you  see.  .  .  But  let  me  tell  you,  my  boy, 
it  costs  money.  Ah,  how  much  it  costs,  this  life  we 
lead.  .  .  It  takes  all  the  money  we  can  get!  If  you 
only  knew  the  enormous  expenses!  It  all  goes  out 
as  fast  as  it  comes  in.  .  .  Clothes,  jewels,  expenses 
of  every  sort.  .  .  [A  loud  outburst  of  voices  in  the 
salon  at  the  rear  cuts  her  short] 


Sicilian  Limes  195 

Voices. 
Where?    Where?    Where?    We  want  to  know! 
Where? 

SiNA^s  Voice. 

A  moment!  I  tell  you,  only  a  moment! 

Marta. 
There!  That's  she!  .  .  .  Here  she  comes.  .  « 

SiNA. 

[She  comes  hastening  in,  rustling  with  silk, 
sparkling  with  gems,  her  shoulders,  bosom 
and  arms  bare.  It  seems  as  if  the  hallway 
has  suddenly  been  flooded  with  light.] 

Micuccio. 
[Who  had  just  stretched  his  hand  out  toward 
the  wine  glass,  sits  transfixed,  his  face  flaming, 
his  eyes  distended,  his  mouth  agape,  dazzled 
and  stupefled,  as  if  in  the  presence  of  a 
vision.  He  stammers.] 
Teresina.  .  . 

SiNA.       ^ 

Micuccio?  Where  are  you?  Ah,  there  he  is.  .  . 
Oh,  how  are  things?  Are  you  all  better  now?  Fine, 
fine.  .  .  You  were  so  sick,  weren't  you?  Oh,  I'll 
see  you  again  soon.  .  .  Mamma  will  stay  with  you 
in  the  meantime.  .  .  Agreed,  eh?  See  you  later. 
[Dashes  out.] 

Micuccio. 
[Stands  amazed,  while  the  reappearance  of  Sina 
in  the  salon  is  greeted  with  loud  shouts.] 


196  Sicilian  Limes 

Marta. 
[After  a  long  silence,  in  order  to  break  the  stupe- 
faction into  which  he  has  fallen.] 
Aren't  you  eating? 

Micuccio. 
[Looks  at  her  stupidly,  without  understanding.] 
Marta. 
Eat.    [pointing  to  the  plate.] 

Micuccio. 
[Inserts  two  fingers  between  his  neck  and  his 

begrimed,  wilted  collar,  tugging  at  it  as  if  to 

make  room  for  a  deep  breath.] 
Eat?  [His  fingers  drum  against  his  chin  as  if  in 
self-confessed  refusal,  to  signify:  ^Tve  lost  my  appe- 
tite, I  canH. "  For  a  while  he  is  silent,  overwhelmed, 
absorbed  in  the  vision  that  has  just  left  him,  then  he 
murmurs:]  What  she's  come  to!  ...  It  ...  it 
doesn't  seem  true.  ..  All  ...  in  that  style.  .  . 
[He  refers,  without  scorn,  but  rather  in  a  stupor,  to 
Sina's  nudity.]  A  dream.  .  .  Her  voice.  .  .  Her 
eyes.  .  .  It's  no  longer  she.  .  .  Teresina.  .  .  [Real- 
izing that  ZIA  Marta  is  shaking  her  head  sadly,  and 
that  she,  too,  has  stopped  eating,  as  if  waiting  for  him.] 
Fie!  .  .  .  No  use  thinking  about  it.  .  .  It's  all 
over.  .  .  Who  knows  how  long  since!  .  .  .  And  I, 
fool  that  I  was  .  .  .  stupid.  .  .  They  had  told  me 
so  back  in  the  country  .  .  .  and  I  .  .  .  broke  my 
bones  to  get  here.  .  .  Thirty-six  hours  on  the 
train  ...  all  for  the  sake  of  making  a  laughing- 


Sicilian  Limes  197 

stock  of  myself  ...  for  that  waiter  and  that  maid 
there  .  .  .  Dorina.  .  .  How  they  laughed!  ...  I, 
and  .  .  .  [Several  times  he  brings  his  forefingers 
together,  as  a  symbol  of  his  union  with  Sina,  and  smiles 
in  melancholy  fashion,  shaking  his  head.]  But  what 
else  was  I  to  believe?  I  came  because  you  .  .  . 
Teresina,  had  .  .  .  had  promised  me.  .  .  But  per- 
haps .  .  .  Yes,  that's  it  .  .  .  How  was  she  herself  to 
imagine  that  one  fine  day  she'd  be  where  she  is  now? 
While  I  .  .  .  yonder  .  .  .  stayed  behind  .  .  .  with 
my  piccolo  ...  in  the  town  square.  .  .  She  .  .  . 
making  such  strides.  .  .  Lord!  .  .  .  No  use  think- 
ing of  that.  .  .  [He  turns,  somewhat  brusquely,  and 
faces  ZIA  Marta.]  If  I  have  done  anything  for  her, 
nobody  zia  Marta,  must  suspect  that  I  have  come 
to  ...  to  stay.  .  .  [He  grows  more  and  more  excited, 
and  jumps  to  his  feet]  Wait!  [He  thrusts  a  hand  into 
his  coat  pocket  and  pulls  out  a  pocketbook.]  I  came 
just  for  this :  to  give  you  back  the  money  you  sent 
to  me.  Do  you  want  to  call  it  a  payment?  Resti- 
tut^'on?  What's  the  difference!  I  see  that  Teresina 
has  become  a  .  .  .  a  queen!  I  see  that  .  .  .  nothing! 
Let's  drop  it!  But  this  money,  no!  I  didn't  deserve 
that  from  you  .  .  .  What's  the  use!  It's  all  over, 
so  let's  forget  it  .  .  .  But  money?  No!  Money  to 
me?  Nothing  doing!  I'm  only  sorry  that  the  amount 
isn't  complete  .  .  . 

Marta. 
[Trembling,  shattered,  tears  in  her  eyes.] 
What  are  you  saying,  my  boy?    What  are  you 
saying? 


igS  Sicilian  Limes 

Micuccio. 

[Signals  her  to  he  quiet.] 
It  wasn't  I  who  spent  it.  My  parents  spent  it 
while  I  was  sick,  without  my  knowledge.  But  let 
that  make  up  for  the  tiny  amount  I  spent  for  her  in 
the  early  days  .  .  .  Do  you  remember?  It's  a  small 
matter  .  .  .  Let's  forget  it.  Here's  the  rest.  And 
I'm  going. 

Mabta. 
What  do  you  mean!  So  suddenly?  Wait  at  least 
until  I  can  tell  Teresina.    Didn't  you  hear  her  say 
that  she  wanted  to  come  back?    I'll  go  right  away 
and  tell  her  .  .  . 

Micuccio. 

[Holding  her  back  in  her  seat] 
No.    It's  useless.  Understand? 

[From  the  salon  comes  the  sound  of  a  piano 

and   of  voices   singing   a   silly,    salacious 

chorus  from  a  musical  comedy,  punctuated 

hy  outbursts  of  laughter.] 

Let  her  stay  there  .  .  .  She's  in  her  element, 

where  she  belongs  .  .  .  Poor  me  .  .  .  I've  seen  her. 

That  was  enough  ...  Or  rather  .  .  .  you  better 

go  there  .  .  .  Do  you  hear  them  laughing?   I  don't 

want  them  to  laugh  at  me  ...  I'm  going  .  .  . 

Marta. 
[Interpreting  Micuccio' s  sudden  resolution  in 
the  worse  sense,  that  is,  as  an  attitude  of 
scorn  and  an  access  of  jealousy.] 


Sicilian  Limes  199 

But  I  .  .  .  It's  impossible  for  me  to  keep  watch 
over  her  any  more,  my  dear  boy  .  .  . 

Micuccio. 
[All  at  once  reading  in  her  eyes  the  suspicion 
that  he  has  not  yet  formed,  his  face  darkens 
and  he  cries  out,] 
Why? 

Marta. 
[Bewildered,  she  hides  her  face  in  her  hands 
but  cannot  restrain  the  rush  of  tears,  as  she 
gasps  between  sobs.] 
Yes,  yes.    Go,  my  boy,  go  .  .  .  She's  no  longer 
fit  for  you.    You're  right  ...  If  you  had  only 
taken  my  advice  .  .  . 

Micuccio. 
[With  an  outburst,  bending  over  her  and  tearing 
one  of  her  hands  from  her  face.] 
Then  .  .  .  Ah,  then  she  .  .  .  she  is  no  longer 
worthy  of  me!   [The  chorus  and  the  tones  of  the  piano 
continue.] 

Marta. 

[Weeping  and  in  anguish,  she  nods  yes,  then 
raises  her  hands  in  prayer,  in  so  supplicat- 
ing, heartbroken  a  manner  that  Micuccio's 
rage  at  once  subsides.] 
For  mercy's  sake,  for  mercy's  sake!   For  pity  of 
me,  Micuccio  mine! 


200  Sicilian  Limes 

Micuccio. 
Enough,  enough  ...  I'm  going  just  the  same  .  .  . 
I'm  all  the  more  determined,  now  .  .  .  What  a  fool 
I  was,  zia  Marta,  not  to  have  understood.  All  for 
this  ...  all  ...  all  naked  .  .  .  Don't  cry  .  .  . 
What's  to  be  done  about  it?  It's  luck  .  .  .  luck  .  .  . 
[As  he  speaks,  he  takes  up  his  valise  and  the  little  hag 
and  starts  to  leave.  It  suddenly  occurs  to  him  that 
inside  of  the  little  hag  there  are  the  heautiful  limes  that 
he  had  hrought  from  Sicily  for  Teresina.]  Oh,  look, 
zia  Marta.  .  .  Look  here  .  .  .  [Opens  the  hag  and 
supporting  it  on  his  arm  pours  out  upon  the  table 
the  fresh,  fragrant  fruit.] 

Marta. 
Limes!    Our  beautiful  limes! 

Micuccio. 
I  had  brought  them  for  her  .  .  .  [He  takes  one.] 
Suppose  I  were  to  start  throwing  them  at  the  heads 
of  all  those  fine  gentlemen  in  there? 

Marta. 

[Again  heseeching  him,] 
For  mercy's  sake! 

Micuccio. 

[With  a  hitter  laugh,  thrusting  the  empty  hag 

into  his  pocket.] 

No,  nothing.    Don't  be  afraid.    I  leave  them  for 

you  alone,  zia  Marta.  And  tell  them  I  paid  the  duty 

on  them,  too  .  .  .  Enough.    They're  for  you  only, 


Sicilian  Limes  201 

remember  that.  As  to  her,  simply  say,  for  me,  "The 
best  of  luck  to  you!" 

[He  leaves.  The  chorus  continiies,  ZIA  Marta 
is  left  weeping  alone  before  the  table,  her 
face  buried  in  her  hands.  A  long  pause, 
until  Sina  Marnis  takes  it  into  her  head  to 
make  another  fleeting  appearance  in  the 
hallway.] 

Sina. 

[Surprised,  catching  sight  of  her  weeping 
mother.] 

Has  he  gone? 

Marta. 
[Without  looking  at  her,  nods  yes.] 

Sina. 
[Stares  vacantly  ahead  of  her,  engrossed,  then 
with  a  sigh.] 
The  poor  fellow  ... 

Marta. 
Look  ...  He  had  brought  you  .  .  .  some  limes. 

Sina. 

[Her  spirits  returning.] 
Oh,  how  beautiful!  Just  see  .  .  .how  many! 
What  fragrance!  How  beautiful,  beautiful!  [She 
presses  one  arm  to  her  waist  and  in  her  other  hand 
seizes  as  many  as  she  can  carry,  shouting  to  the  guests 
in  the  salon,  who  come  running  in.]  Didi!  Didi! 
Rosi!    Geg^!    Cornelli!    Tarini!   Didi! 


202  Sicilian  Limes 

Marta. 
[Rising  in  vehement  protest] 
No!  Not  there!  I  say  no!  Not  there! 

SiNA. 

[Shrugging  her  shoulders  and  offering  the  fruit 
to  the  gu£sts.] 
Let  me  do  as  I  please!  Here,  Didi!  Sicilian  limes! 
Here's  some  for  you,  Rosi,  Sicilian  limes!   Sicilian 
limes!* 


Curtain. 


♦The  new  version  (1920)  has  a  different  ending.  Sina, 
instead  of  gailv  distributing  the  limes  to  her  guests,  stands  in 
tears  before  her  former  sweetheart,  who  repudiating  her 
remorse,  thrusts  the  money  into  her  bosom  and  leaves. 


Ki^ 


14  DAY  USE 

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